


I was Lost till You were Found

by Skitz_phenom



Series: There's a Border to Somewhere Waiting [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Cliffhanger, Dragonlord Merlin (Merlin), F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Quests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 11:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 69,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20488169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: On the shores of Avalon, Arthur wakes to a world not his own. Though time has passed, it's been nowhere near long enough to bring-about the return of the Once and Future King. Instead, it's a different task that's pulled Arthur from the hereafter: one that could change the future and the very fabric of magic. Figuring out why he's alive once again is only just the start of Arthur's journey.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a three-part series. This first 'book' is being posted in its entirety as my entry to the WIP Big Bang 2019. The other two 'books' will likely post on a chapter-by-chapter basis. Although, that likely won't begin until late Fall. This work stands alone, but if you're not a fan of cliffhangers... you may want to hold off reading!!

Arthur wakes to the distinct sensation of water lapping at his feet.

It’s cool water that’s sloshing gently and rhythmically up to his ankles and for a long, semi-conscious moment he vaguely wonders if he’s dozed off and let the bath go cold. Then – as his awareness of his surroundings and his body grows – he realizes that he’s lying prone on the ground, face pillowed on a rather tickly hummock of yellow-green grass. There’s more grass flattened beneath his arms, prickly under his chest and belly, but his knees are resting in furrows of sand and pebbled stone.

He also comes to the abrupt realization that he’s naked.

Lifting his head and pushing up onto his elbows, Arthur glances around to gain a better idea of his surroundings (and also to see if there’s anyone nearby, to witness him in this unclothed, undignified state).

He’s on the shore of a lake; one that slopes up a gradual incline to woods as far as he can see in either direction. Looking over his shoulder at the lake, he can see something – perhaps a small island? – in the distance, but it, and the far shoreline, are almost obscured by low crawling fog that clings to the surface of the water. Which is odd, he realizes, since the sun is shining bright atop the far tree line from a blue, barely cloud-tufted sky.

Arthur pushes himself to his knees, slowly, wondering at the ache he feels in his legs and his back and his shoulders and his whole body. It’s like two days after a battle campaign, when the worst of the soreness and pain truly sets in. His head is too-many tankards of mead heavy, but he cannot remember drinking the night before.

He can’t remember much of anything about the night before, actually.

Straightening, knees pressing deeply into the damp, sandy soil, he takes further stock of his surroundings. His clothes are nowhere to be seen, but a glinting in the nearby rushes reveals itself to be his sword when he leans closer for a better look. There’s also no sign of anyone else nearby. No sound of tack jingling, or hooves rustling the brush.

Odd. No clothing, no horse, no other people, and yet his sword lays waiting. He starts to reach for it, but aborts the motion at the twinge in his ribs. He’ll get it in a moment.

Habit has him calling out, “Merlin!” and feeling rather foolish doing so as soon as the name is off his tongue. Much as he wants to think this is some sort of jest or prank, there’s a darker truth niggling at the back of his mind. Even before the sound of his ringing call echoes to silence he already knows that Merlin is nowhere to be found.

With nothing else to do, Arthur stands. Getting to his feet is as much a struggle as gaining his knees. He feels weak as a newborn lamb, barely able to get its gangling legs gathered underneath it. And when he does rise, finally, it takes squaring his feet and spreading his arms for balance to keep from toppling again. The world goes spinning and tumbling past his eyes, and he squeezes them shut and just tries to breathe.

He inhales deeply through his nose, flaring his nostrils with each long intake of air, and then lets the breaths out slowly through pursed lips. It’s a technique Gaius recommended once, for him to suggest to knights who looked too close to panic before a competition or a battle. Thankfully, it seems to help. When the vertigo passes, and he feels safe sneaking a peek at the world, he eases his eyelids open and finds things steady. He sighs, lets his hands drop to his sides and then feels his stomach flip treacherously.

Perhaps not so steady after all.

Luckily the nausea passes by more quickly than the dizziness. He places a hand softly on his belly, as if that might help to further quell any rebellion on the part of his innards. Some odd compulsion has his hand sliding further left and then up and over his ribcage before he’s even aware his arm is moving.

Arthur’s breath catches and he goes still as stone when his fingertips find and trace over a thin ridge of puckered skin; it’s neatly placed in the divot between two ribs, just two hand-spans below his heart, and not even as wide as two fingers.

“Oh,” he says softly.

He remembers everything, suddenly, and it nearly staggers him: leaving him dizzier and more off-balance than any weakness in his body ever could.

He _died_.

Arthur _remembers_ dying.

While the memories are muddled and dark-edged - churning in his mind like the oppressive miasma of a gathering storm – flashes come to him, striking the back of his eyes in electric pulses, with an odd sort of break-in-the-storm kind of clarity. He remembers, so vividly, the moment of Mordred’s blade sliding through his ribs. It hadn’t hurt, for the first few seconds, until Mordred drew the blade back out.

And he knows it’s just phantom pain - the _memory_ of pain - but that brief flicker of a memory is enough to send him doubling-over as a shock lances through his side like a forge-heated poker. _Or perhaps_, he thinks grimly, _exactly like a sword_. Pressing down with his fingers over that spot elicits no real feeling whatsoever, yet he still massages the scar and tries to sooth the ache with helpless actions.

The burn of it fades as that memory is subsumed by another: Merlin, cradling him, speaking soft urgent words even as the world around them began to fade. He’d tried to stay awake, to do as Merlin had so desperately asked and stay with him, but the drawing pall of darkness had closed over him despite all his efforts.

Arthur shivers, and it’s as much that he’s standing naked on the edge of a lake on what seems to be an early spring morning – judging by the colorful scattering of just budding wildflowers near the edge of the tree line – as it is reliving those last few moments of his life. And he knows that standing there, helplessly awash in memories, isn’t going to get him any answers as to where he is, or why he’s all alone or even why he’s still alive when he _absolutely_ remembers _dying_.

On nothing more than the hope that the lake _is_ Avalon – as that’s where Merlin had been taking him – Arthur orients himself to the rising sun. He doesn’t relish the idea of trudging through the forest with nothing more to protect him than a sword and his dignity, but that’s all he’s got. He steps over to where the sword rests amongst the slender grasses that edge the lake and retrieves it, carefully (he’s not entirely steady on his feet yet). The sword, at least, feels familiar in his hand. He gives a few practice swings, pleased to note that his body remembers the motions, and then starts off in what he hopes is the direction of Camelot.

As he predicted, making his way through the trees and brush is an uncomfortable experience, although it’s his feet that suffer the worst. Hacking at the branches and brush, using the sword to cut a path, keeps his body relatively free of more than minor scrapes and scratches, but there’s nothing to protect his feet from the sharp stones, fallen twigs and other unpleasantness buried beneath the leaf litter.

The sun is high overhead when he takes his first rest at the edge of a burbling stream that wends through a particularly rocky part of the forest. He gingerly picks his way across the rocks and settles on an outcrop of stone, first leaning over to cup several mouthfuls to drink, and then sitting down to dangle his feet in the chilly flowing water. As refreshing as it is to both his thirst and his feet, even more so is the realization that the landscape is familiar to him. He’s hunted these woods and knows this stream. Perhaps not this exact bend or these exact boulders, but it’s familiar enough that he knows he’s heading in the right direction.

Improving upon that is the knowledge that there are a few small crofters’ homes and charcoal huts and farms scattered here and there along the edges of the woods. Hopefully he’ll come across one and be able to find some clothes. He doesn’t relish the thought of trying to sneak into the castle in the altogether. He gives himself a few more minutes to regain his breath and when his feet are nearly numb from being immersed, he pushes himself up from the rocks and sets off again.

Arthur’s good luck holds out and only a few miles out of the woods he comes across a small, homey farmstead set in the middle of several small crop fields; some still lying fallow and others newly planted. There’s a large shelter off the back of the home surrounded by rough wooden fencing that keeps a handful of milling goats and one lone milk cow corralled. From the pale smoke trailing up out of a chimney in the farmhouse, it’s occupied.

Feeling ridiculously exposed, Arthur hurries across a field of ankle-high barley planted in neat rows and then keeps close to a crumbling stone wall that surrounds the house and a few ramshackle outbuildings. If the occupants are inside, at least the wall might afford him a small amount of modesty.

It occurs to him, just before he’s about to call out to see if there’s anyone at home, just how odd he’ll look: entirely naked but carrying a fine sword. He thinks about stashing it somewhere, glances around for some idea, but finds nothing that looks convenient. He’ll just have to improvise.

Steeling himself for the embarrassment that’s sure to follow, Arthur cups a hand to his mouth and calls out, “Hello! Is anyone at home?”

He hears a commotion from inside: sudden and frantic barking and a loud crashing noise and atop all that, a shrill voice that he can’t quite make out. The door to the small abode peeks open and before Arthur can even decide if he should lift his sword, a blur of greyish-brown is streaking towards him. It crosses the yard, leaps the lowest part of the fence and resolves itself into a rather small, hairy mongrel. The dog frisks at his feet, sniffing and seeming unsure if it wants to growl or wag its tail. It looks a bit like the terriers in the Royal kennels that are used to hunt rats. He murmurs down to it, “Settle down, little fellow. There’s a good dog.” He’s about to cautiously extend a hand down when a voice interrupts.

“Who’s there, then?” The voice belongs to an elderly woman. She eyes him suspiciously, leaning out from behind the protection of a stout wooden door. “What do you want?”

Arthur musters his best manners. He gives the courtliest bow he can manage – while still keeping hidden behind the stacked stone wall – and then smiles in a way that he knows is quite charming. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Ma’am. I ran afoul of bandits in the woods. I managed to escape them, but ah…” he gestures at himself, “they managed to get away with my horse and my clothes.”

“Oh, dear me,” the woman holds a weathered, ruddy hand to her breast. “You’re not wearing a stitch, are you?”

“No, Ma’am.” Arthur shakes his head sadly.

The hand migrates from her ample bosom to cover her mouth. It takes Arthur a moment to realize that she’s smothering a laugh. “Oh, you poor young man,” she manages after getting hold of herself and she beckons him over. “My man and my layabout son are up the city for the day, doing some trading. They’ll not be back afore nightfall.” She gestures at him again. “Come on, boy. I can spare some of Jory’s things that I’ve put away.”

Arthur hesitates. “Um, I appreciate that, but could you perhaps bring them out?” He feels himself going flush from his chest to his cheeks. “I’m not quite fit for polite company.”

She waves that away. “Don’t be daft, young man. I’ve raised four boys. You’ve got nothin’ I’ve not seen before.” The hand suddenly becomes cautioning, a finger waggling. “But don’t you try anything. Nipper there will have your bollocks at a single word from me.”

He glances down at the dog that is lying at his feet, worrying his big toe. “Yes, of course. You have my word, upon my honor.”

“Oh, your honor is it?” she repeats, but it’s with a warm laugh. “Well, your word will have to do. As will this.” She hefts a very stout piece of wood, worn smooth at one end from years of handling. She looks entirely too comfortable wielding it; it’s an effective threat. “Now come inside, boy. I’ve got bread over the fire that needs to come off.” She gives one last, rather impatient wave and then disappears behind the door.

“Well, come on, Nipper,” Arthur says to the dog, who springs to his feet at hearing his name. Arthur carefully vaults the stone fence, while the grey-furred cur squeezes through a gap at the nearest gate. Hours of scrambling through trees and brush didn’t leave him feeling nearly as exposed as crossing the few dozen yards of garden between the fence and the home. He hurries to the door and props his sword against the frame. He’ll retrieve it on the way out and hopefully avoid any awkward conversations about why he’s carrying that, but nothing else.

He taps on the door and then pulls it open when the woman calls out a hurried, “Come in then.”

He slips inside, letting the dog follow him in (it ambles right past him to curl up on a rug next to the hearth), and then stands awkwardly with his hands over his groin and his back to the closed door. The woman ignores him at first – she’s got a cloth in her hands and is moving a steaming bread loaf from the hearth – so Arthur glances around. The interior of the small structure is comprised of the main area where he’s waiting, another smaller area towards the far left and a kitchen and larder opposite, all of which are separated only by partial walls. There don’t appear to be any actual doors except the one he entered through. All together it’s probably smaller than his chambers in the castle, but it’s homey and warm. Arthur can’t imagine that this woman raised four boys in such a space.

He says as much, just to make conversation.

The woman laughs. “Oh, it may seem small, but there’s a loft where the boys slept.” She gestures loosely over her shoulder to the back of the room and Arthur can see a ladder that leads up to an open space above them. “Not to mention they were out of doors all through the days, no matter the weather, so they weren’t often underfoot.” She dismisses the topic with a flick of the dishcloth. “Now, let’s have a look at you.” She turns away from whatever she’s doing at the hearth and takes a few pointed steps towards him and then gives him a thorough once-over. Arthur fights the urge to squirm under her unabashedly frank gaze.

“Well,” she says, once she’s apparently looked her fill, “you’re about my Jory’s height. He’s a bit bigger through the chest, but you’re broader in the shoulders so I think that’ll balance out.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to the comparison, so he just nods politely.

“I’ve got some of his old things stored away that I was just going to put to another purpose, but goodness knows you could use them much more. I’ll just go and fetch them.” She makes her way across to the far side, into the area that’s separated enough from the rest of the space to indicate it’s likely a sort of bedchamber, and rummages through a low standing chest of drawers. She comes back a few minutes later and Arthur is thrilled to see that there’s a pair of boots atop the stack of assorted clothing she’s carrying.

“Go on now,” she says, handing the items over to him. He hurries to take them in both hands and is thankful that her gaze doesn’t waver before he can lower the bundle to protect his modesty once again. She continues on, oblivious to his discomfort. “There ought to be something in here that’ll fit well enough. I’m not sure of the boots, but it can’t hurt to try ‘em. They belong to my husband, but he’s been after getting them mended for some months now, and hasn’t seen to it, so it’s not as like he’ll miss them.” That pronouncement made, she leaves him with the clothes and returns to the kitchen to tend something hanging on a stove hook over the hearth fire.

Arthur does as he was bade and quickly sorts through the clothing, finds what he thinks will fit well enough and hurries to dress in the oft-patched homespun. The trousers are a touch long and the tunic just slightly taut across his shoulders, but otherwise it fits well enough to suffice until he can get to Camelot to be properly accoutered. She thoughtfully included a corded belt and he ties that around his waist, and then steps into the boots. They’re also a bit snug but not enough that he’d opt for going barefoot.

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” he tells her. “I truly appreciate what you’ve done for me, and I’ll be sure to repay you for the clothing once I get back to Camelot.”

“Oh pish posh.” The dish cloth goes fluttering dismissively again. “Don’t you worry about it, young man. I’m just being neighborly. Tis no less or no more than I’d do for any lost soul. The Queen herself could show up at my door and I’d do the same.”

A grin splits Arthur’s mouth at her mention of Guinevere. “The Queen herself?” he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

The woman returns the grin. “Well, perhaps for her I’d break out the good pottery.” She waggles a scolding finger. “But not for none else. And speakin’ of pottery, why don’t you come and share a meal. If I’m to guess by the state you were in, it’s been some hours since you’ve had a proper meal.”

Arthur doesn’t quite know how to take that, as he didn’t think he looked that rough. He starts to beg off – mention of the Queen and Camelot has renewed the urgency of his journey – but his stomach overrules him and grumbles loudly.

“That’s what I suspected,” she says, knowingly. “If those brigands took your clothes and your horse, I’m guessing they took any travel food you might have had as well. So, don’t be shy, boy. Come an’ join me.”

There’s no refusing her at this point, so he takes a seat on a wooden bench worn so smooth that it’s almost slick and sits opposite her at the table. While she ladles out bowls of some kind of thick chowder and cuts two slabs of the freshly baked bread and slathers them with fresh butter Arthur takes up the pitcher and pours watery ale in both their mugs. “I don’t stand on ceremony here,” she tells him as she slides the steaming bowl and hunk of buttered bread over. “Go on, dig in.”

The food is delicious, and Arthur hadn’t realized just how ravenous he was until he puts the first spoonful of the soup past his lips. Famished as he is, Arthur focuses on eating and the meal passes in silence. But it’s companionable and comfortable and the woman just smiles over her bowl at him with every appreciative noise he makes. When he’s done he sets down his spoon and pushes the bowl away. He declines her silent offer of a refill. “No, thank you. That was wonderful though, thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your generosity.” He frowns suddenly, realizing something. “I’m afraid I never got your name.”

“Oh, it’s nothing to apologize for, young man. You seem to have had quite the morning, so I won’t hold that against you. Asides, I don’t have yours either. But you can call me Brenna.”

“Brenna,” Arthur inclines his head. “I’m Arthur. You said your husband and son were at Camelot?”

“Aye,” she confirms. “They brought the early piglets to market.”

Arthur frowns. “I didn’t see any pigs in the yard.”

“Well you wouldn’t now, would you, lad?” Brenna laughs, a merry glint in her eye. “All we’ve left is our broody sow and she’s down the farm at the other end of the valley being stood to their brute for autumn get. At any rate, my man will sell the piglets and pick up some supplies. They’ll be due back tomorrow afternoon or evening at latest.”

“Do you know where they’ll be staying in town? I’d like to seek them out if I can, to repay them for your kindness.”

Brenna doesn’t have her cloth to wave, but she does flutter her hand at him. “Oh, that won’t be necessary, lad, I already told you.” Her eyes narrow a moment in thought and she goes on a bit sheepishly, “Though I will tell you that they usually do get a room at the Rising Sun tavern and stay the night. You see, I did forget to ask my Bert to get me some new spools of thread for my mending. He’s not like to remember it on his own, so I’d be grateful if you were of a mind to remember that to him.”

Arthur nods. “I’d be more than happy to pass that message along, Brenna.” He pushes away from the table. “Now, I hate to rush off, especially as you’ve been so kind, but I really must be back to Camelot before it gets too late.”

“Of course, boy. I’ve got chores to get to as well.” She stands and escorts him to the door. From his rug by the hearth Nipper lifts his head and perks his ears but settles again once he realizes his mistress isn’t leaving. “You take care on your way to the city, lad. You’re not far from the main road, at least, and it’s well patrolled by them knightly blokes from the castle, but you can never be too careful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Be well, Brenna.” He bows over her hand. “And my thanks.”

She titters at his show of chivalry and shoos him off. “Go on with you now.”

Once the door closes behind him Arthur retrieves his sword and secures it at his hip through the belt. He crosses the yard and continues his journey back to Camelot. There are woods on the far side of the farm and after carefully navigating another newly planted field he’s back beneath the shadowed boles once again. At least this time the going is much easier and faster.


	2. Chapter 2

Brenna’s pronouncement that he’s not far from the road proves true.

He breaks through the woods after just a few miles and is almost startled to see the wide expanse of road waiting for him. The condition of the roadway surprises him as well. It looks extremely well-travelled, and wider than he remembers. That troubles him for a reason he can’t readily pinpoint, and he hurries along to avoid thinking too deeply about it.

He passes travelers once. Some kind of merchant, judging by the laden wagon he’s driving, accompanied by two guards; one riding in front and the other behind. The group veers wide of him on the road when they pass, and they eye him with suspicion. Arthur just steps to the verge and nods at them as they go by.

It’s just edging towards night – the blue sky above darkening and shading to purple at the horizon – when Camelot finally comes into view. Even from a distance the castle is bright and beautiful and the whole city seems to sparkle with light. Seeing his destination so close – another hours’ travel on foot at most – renews Arthurs’ energy and he pushes on.

Full dark has fallen by the time he steps beyond the gates of the city into the lower town, but the city is still bustling. The guards at the gate take no note of him, in fact he barely merits a second glance, and the rest of the denizens of Camelot pay him no mind. He debates, for all of a few moments, whether or not he should seek out Brenna’s husband at the Rising Sun and then decides against it. He’ll be much better positioned to find the man, and also to offer him the recompense Brenna so adamantly refused, after he’s been back to the castle.

Decided, Arthur makes his way down streets that seem… strange. He’s not sure if it’s the dark that’s putting him off, but much of what he’s passing by doesn’t seem quite right. Twice he takes wrong turns when he was absolutely sure of the way to go, and more than once he has to stop and reorient himself.

The unsettled feeling grows when he reaches the keep proper. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is that’s got him feeling so uneasy. Places he’s passing by – the main gates, the fountain in the central square, the steps that lead up into the palace – they’re familiar but keep twigging that sense that ‘something’s off’. He doesn’t recognize any of the guards, and while a few look at him oddly, no one does more than nod or step aside at his passing. Once he’s inside the castle he makes a quick decision about his immediate destination. Instead of heading straight to his quarters, he decides to go to Gaius’.

He needs to find Merlin and find out just what the hell is going on.

Walking up the curving staircase, he notes that the placard proclaiming ‘Physician’ is missing from the wall, and when he reaches the door he pauses with a hand flat on the wood. There’s an oppressive silence hanging over the area that feels utterly unnatural. He leans on the door, as if he’ll be able to sense what’s behind it through the skin of his palm.

“Stop this,” he bites out in a harsh whisper. “You’re being ridiculous.” He drops his hand from the wood to the doorknob, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

His breath blows out of him in a surprised gasp as he looks about the dark room.

It’s empty.

Well, not wholly empty – in the gloom he can see there are pieces of dust-covered furniture and a few haphazardly stacked crates and other random items scattered about – but it’s empty of life, of people, of being lived-in at all. No candles flicker on the tabletops, nothing is brewing or steaming, there isn’t a single book or tome in sight. There’s no Gaius standing over a table working his potions and herbs.

There’s no Merlin…

While there’s no light inside the room, the wall sconces in the hall have been lit, so Arthur retrieves a torch from one of them. He steps inside and finds that there are still candles in the chandelier and a standing candelabrum. He lights them and then sets his torch in the empty sconce near the door. Once the chamber is better lit his feet carry him almost without conscious thought across the space to the room at the far end. That door is half open and even though it’s dark beyond, enough light spills in that Arthur can see that the room is likewise empty. He stops at the bottom of the short span of steps, unwilling to go any further.

“Thomas!”

A voice, high and strident, carries into the room from the hallway and Arthur spins around in time to see a young boy, no more than six or seven years old, scurry into the room. He’s running like someone is chasing him but flails to a stop when he spots Arthur and goes skidding about two meters across the floor on stocking feet. When he finally scrambles to a stop, he plants his feet and actually reaches for a wooden sword that he’s carrying at his belt.

“Thomas, where are you?” It comes from just outside the room and is definitely a young girl speaking.

The boy – obviously called Thomas – turns to glance over his shoulder. “In here, Ruthie. In Gaius’ old room. Hurry!” His head swivels back in a blink, gaze locking on Arthur. “Who’re you?” He withdraws the sword and levels it up at Arthur.

If Arthur weren’t so utterly confused, he’d probably find this amusing.

He assumes that the girl who hurries into the room and stops just behind the boy must be Ruthie. “Thomas!” She sounds alarmed at the site of the young boy facing down a stranger. Hurrying up to him, she puts her hands on Thomas’ shoulders, and draws him back against her protectively.

“Hello,” Arthur says, smiling to try to put these children at ease. He doubts they’ll be able to answer any of his questions, but he can give it a try.

“Who’re you?” Ruthie asks. She’s a few years older than the boy and there are enough similarities about their features – wildly tousled brunette curls (his a few shades darker than hers), freckled, dusky skin and the same big, brown eyes – that tells him they’re siblings.

“You can’t be here,” Thomas states boldly, before Arthur can respond. “No one’s allowed in here.”

Arthur cocks his head and mock-frowns. “Then what were you doing in here?”

That seems to take the boy aback a moment. But he recovers quickly. “Well I’m not no one.”

“Neither am I,” Arthur counters.

“Thomas,” Ruthie cautions, eying Arthur warily. “Don’t speak to him. You don’t know who he is.”

“It’s all right,” Arthur tries to reassure them. “I’m allowed to be in here. I’m the King of Camelot,” he explains.

Thomas pulls away from his sister, stepping boldly towards Arthur and putting his fists on his hips, clacking his wooden sword against the stone floor in the process. “No, you’re not. I’m the Prince of Camelot. So, you can’t be the king.”

Before Arthur can respond to that, someone else enters the room.

“There you two are!” He’s a young man, perhaps in his early teens. He’s dressed quite fine, is carrying a real sword with practiced ease, and his hand falls in an habitual manner to the hilt when he looks past the other two and spots Arthur.

Again, Arthur is struck by the family resemblance. His hair is lightest of all three and frames his face in a halo of tawny waves. There’s something else as well, about the young man’s features, that strikes a chord, but Arthur can’t quite place it.

“Who’re you?” the young man asks, looking just as cautious as the girl.

“He says he’s the King of Camelot,” Ruthie explains.

“Well he’s lying then,” the older boy responds, rolling his eyes like the answer is obvious.

Arthur spreads his hands, keeping them well away from his sword. “Look, my name’s Arthur. I’m just trying to find some friends of mine. Do either of you know a man called Merlin?”

That prompts a response. Ruthie and the older boy exchange an unnerved glance. At an unspoken word Ruthie takes Thomas by the shoulder and drags him behind her.

“Thomas, run and fetch father,” The older boy instructs.

“But El–”

“Don’t argue,” the older boy snaps out. “Now, run and get father.”

Thomas kicks at the floor in silent protest – wincing immediately after because he’s wearing no shoes – but does as his brother asks.

“Maybe your father can help me?” Arthur suggests when the youngest boy is out of the room.

The young man shrugs but Ruthie steps a pace closer to him. She stares up at him rather unabashedly, studying him with interest. “What did you say your name was?”

“Arthur. Arthur Pendragon.” He adds the latter hoping it gets some kind of reaction. Whosever children these are is likely a guest in the castle, so it would only make sense that they recognize the name.

Apparently, they do, because once again, brother and sister share a look that Arthur can’t interpret.

“You should stop lying,” the young man says with an air of boredom. It’s well-feigned, but Arthur’s spent enough time at court to recognize that he’s trying to appear nonchalant to put Arthur off-balance. It’s actually a trick Arthur’s used during particularly trying treaty negotiations. “Father won’t appreciate being lied to.”

Arthur nods. “I understand that. You may not believe it, but I have no intention of lying to your father, I can assure you.”

“Why are you looking for this Merlin?” Ruthie asks. She’s clearly still apprehensive, but there’s a curiosity bright in her eyes.

Her brother scowls. “Ruthie.”

Ruthie shoots her brother a dark look. “I want to know.”

Arthur interrupts before their discussion can escalate. “It’s all right, Ruthie. I don’t mind. I’m looking for my friend because I need his help.”

“With what?”

She’s a precocious thing, that’s for sure.

Arthur thinks on how to answer that for a moment. He’s not even sure what he’s doing. The sense that things are wrong is nearly overwhelming and he feels like he’s just waiting for the final piece of parchment to be laid into place to see the whole of the map. And he’s afraid it’s all going to come into focus in an instant. He fears that moment and what it will mean.

He’s saved from having to answer by the sounds of people approaching. He can hear the boy Thomas talking rapidly to someone, his voice growing louder and more distinct as they get closer.

“… and he said he was the King of Camelot, father. And I told him he wasn’t, and then I told him that he shouldn’t be hanging about in Gaius’ old room.”

Arthur looks up expectantly at the door and sees Ruthie and her brother do the same.

Thomas’ father answers him. “You shouldn’t have been playing in this part of the castle, you know?”

There’s something very familiar about the voice of the man speaking.

“But father–”

“No arguing, Thomas. Your mother and I set these rules for a reason…”

Father and son come around the doorway and once again Arthur feels like he has the breath punched out of him.

Thomas and Ruthie’s father is Leon.

_Leon_ is standing in the doorway, stilled as if he’s struck some invisible barricade and eyes gone wide with shock. Thomas – his _son_ – is tugging at his arm, but Leon pays him little mind.

A heavy silence hangs over the room for many long moments. Arthur studies his friend. Leon’s not in armor and instead looks dressed for some state occasion, in a fine tunic, vest, and trousers. An ornate chain of office hangs around his neck and a rich cloak of Camelot red drapes his shoulders. There’s grey touching his temples and his middle’s a bit thicker than Arthur remembers, but he still looks fighting fit. There’s something oddly dignified about him.

“Father?” The older son finally asks. “Father, what is it?” He sounds frightened and much younger than his years.

Leon finally finds his voice. “You three, go now and fetch your mother. She’ll be in the hall.” He steps down into the room, away from the door then gives a curt sweep of his arm and barks out a brusque, “Go on, _now_,” when they don’t seem inclined to listen. That gets them scrambling and they group up and then file past Leon almost as one.

Arthur waits until he can no longer hear the tapping echo of Ruthie’s shoes from the hall and then he exhales, “Leon.”

“Arthur?” Leon shakes his head, disbelieving. “Is that really you?”

It pains Arthur to see that Leon’s got his fingers around the grip of his sword. But he doesn’t blame him. That whole map of things that Arthur’s been avoiding since he woke up beside the lake has finally come into focus.

_Years_ have passed. More than a dozen, at least, if the age of Leon’s children is any guide. Arthur’s been away from Camelot – been _dead_ – for years. He can’t blame Leon for looking at him like he’s seeing a ghost. Hell, for all he knows, it _is_ a ghost… (though he certainly doesn’t feel like one).

“Yes,” Arthur nods. “It’s me. I know what you must be thinking…” He snorts derisively. “Well, no. I don’t actually know what you’re thinking, because I’m at a loss to explain it myself, so I have no idea what could be going on in your mind.”

The hint of a smile tugs at Leon’s mouth even if it doesn’t make it all the way to his eyes. “Yes, well, I don’t think I know my own mind at the moment either, so I’m no better off.”

Arthur steels himself. He knows the next question he must ask. “I um… died, didn’t I? I mean, a number of years ago.”

Leon nods slowly, frowning. “Yes, Arthur. Nearly seventeen years ago, now. At least as far as we _knew_ you died. That’s what we were told. You never came back from…” he trails off, and swallows hard enough that Arthur can see the lines of his throat go taut. “From Camlann. We thought you were dead,” he blurts out, sounding agonized.

“I was,” Arthur hurries to explain. “I mean, I remember dying, Leon. I’ve _been_ dead this whole time.”

“Then how are you here?” Leon nearly implores. “How are you standing before me? Are you flesh or some phantom?”

Arthur starts forward to show Leon that he is indeed flesh and bone with a beating heart and breath in his lungs. Leon flinches from him. It’s a brief, aborted gesture, but it stops Arthur’s feet. He keeps his distance, trying so very hard not to feel the ache in his chest at being treated like this. “I truly don’t know, Leon. _Truly_. I woke up on the shores of the lake of Avalon just this morning. I have no idea how or why I’m here.” He holds out a hand, offering it. “But I am a living, breathing man, Leon.”

Leon’s left hand doesn’t leave the sword, and he hesitates before doing so, but he takes the few steps necessary to reach out and clasp Arthur’s outstretched arm. He lets out a little breath, not quite a gasp, when his hand closes around Arthur’s wrist. “You’re really here.”

“I’m really here,” Arthur agrees, feeling slightly giddy.

There’s a moment where he feels Leon start to respond – his fingers tighten around Arthur’s arm and he shifts forward like he’s about to step closer – and then he stops himself, eyes narrowing. The fingers fall away, slipping from Arthur’s skin as his arm drops back to his side. “But how do I know it’s really you. You may _look_ like Arthur, but if there’s some magic at play here, what’s to say you’re not just… some likeness of Arthur?”

Though his immediate reaction is indignation – _of course_ he’s who he says he is – Arthur refrains from letting that show. He understands Leon’s reticence; this has got to be such a ridiculously impossible thing to encounter. And who knows what experiences he’s had in the years Arthur’s missed that might lend themselves to such suspicion. He spends a moment wracking his brain to come up with a way to prove he’s really who he says he is.

“Ask me something,” he blurts out, eager to give Leon whatever reassurance he needs. “Something private, or personal. Something that wasn’t common knowledge. Ask me about something that only I’d know, if I were really Arthur. Which I am.” He adds the latter in a rush, and barely refrains from grasping at Leon’s forearm to keep him from drawing away further.

Leon frowns. But it’s a thoughtful frown, not a dismissive one, so Arthur assumes he’s thinking of some kind of question that will settle the matter.

Arthur can’t wait though; he _needs_ for Leon to believe him. He pushes on before Leon has the chance to speak. “Okay, um, what about that time in the tavern that Gwaine lost all his coin in that wager with the barmaid? Remember? She’d thrown a knife dead on target and he’d missed entirely?” He shakes his head at himself almost immediately. “No, that’s no good; too many witnesses to that. Oh! That time that Sir Edric vomited in the barracks after training because he and Osric had been out carousing late the night before. And then Osric slipped in it and knocked over all the shields.”

Leon blinks, uncomprehending, and Arthur remembers, “No, wait. You were on patrol when that happened.”

“It’s a good story though,” Leon says softly, a smile starting to push at one corner of his mouth. He goes on, not allowing Arthur the chance to offer any more suggestions. “What about your first tournament? What did you do just after you won, once you left the field?”

And that’s something Arthur’s not thought on in years; but he’s never forgotten it. He’s not surprised that’s where Leon’s mind went as it’s one of the – albeit many – moments that cemented their friendship, and Arthur’s loyalty to Leon.

He looks in Leon’s eyes, which are wide and imploring, and feels strong emotion prick at his own. “Right. Well, I’d won and been presented as champion, and I received my champion’s token. It was a garland of flowers that Lady Bedevere presented to me. She may have crafted it herself… I can’t quite recall.” The blooms had been red and purple and twined with a garish gold ribbon; that much he does remember.

“Anyway, when I quit the field my father wanted me to join him at the banquet but, I didn’t. Not right away. Instead, I went down to the catacombs and laid the flowers over my Mother’s tomb.” He swallows hard, forcing down whatever it is that’s pushing so heavy at his throat. “Um, I spoke to her as well, told her all about my victory and I may have uh, cried a bit.” He admits that a trifle reluctantly.

“And then I realized you’d followed me.” The smile that comes is crooked; the memory bittersweet. “You’d probably been witness to all of it, and I was embarrassed of course. I don’t quite remember how I’d tried to excuse it, but I started babbling about the dust in the tombs, or perhaps dirt in my eye from the tourney grounds, or something equally ridiculous.” His hands gesture a bit aimlessly, like he’s trying to pull the memories from the air, and then they lower and still. “But you didn’t mock me as I’d feared. You didn’t say anything in fact. You just put an arm over my shoulder and stood with me in silence and the only thing you said before bringing me back to the banquet was ‘She’d have been proud of you.’” The grin he’s still wearing goes a bit wobbly with emotion.

Leon stares in silence for what seems like an age. Then he swallows hard.

“It _is_ you, isn’t it?”

Arthur blows out a breath so relieved it’s almost a sob. “Yes…it’s really me.”

Leon takes hold of Arthur’s wrist again, grip tight, and he tugs Arthur in. He squeezes Arthur to him in a strong, back-slapping hug, almost pounding on Arthur’s shoulders he’s patting so hard, and Arthur can only return the embrace just as fiercely. Leon finally pulls away after a few moments, and when he does he has to scrub the back of his arm over his eyes. “It’s damn good to see you, Arthur.”

“It’s good to see you as well, Leon.”

They stare at each other a few more moments, Leon’s mouth opening and closing like he’s troubling over what to say. Finally, something comes to him.

“So, you’ve no idea how it is you’ve come back?” he asks, understandably confused. “There were no clues when you woke up? No one there?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Not a thing. In fact, I woke up in nothing but my own skin. The only other thing with me was my sword.”

One of Leon’s brows rises. “You woke up naked?” He gestures to the clothing Arthur’s wearing. “Then how did you come by this?”

“A kindly farmwife, who took pity on me.” Arthur explains. “But I didn’t come upon her for several hours. It wasn’t the most pleasant journey back to Camelot, I’ll tell you that.”

Leon’s laughter is such a welcome sound, no matter that it’s a little bit wild, and just a hair uncertain. “I’m sure it wasn’t. And I can only begin to guess what kind of a tale you had to spin to earn her sympathy.”

He feels his cheeks heat, and starts to answer, but once again the sound of voices approaching stays Arthur’s reply. Little Thomas’ voice rings out above the others, and he bounds into the room before anyone else.

“He’s in here, Mummy!”


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur is struck by just how much Thomas looks like his father; but that smile and those freckles… those _aren’t_ Leon.

Another section of Arthur’s new map draws itself out. He _knows_ who their mother is.

“Leon?” Guinevere is saying as she comes into the room. “What’s going on? The children–” she breaks off as she looks past Leon and finally spots him. Her hand flies up to her mouth and her face pales.

It takes Arthur a moment to fit the next bit of his map in place. If Gwen is the children’s mother, and Leon their father, it means the two are married. And watching the way that Gwen reaches out to clutch at Leon’s arm and he draws her closer, putting a protective arm around her shoulders and pulling her into his side, Arthur can’t help but feel a sharp pang of loss.

He understands, he _does_, that for them it’s been almost two decades; they’ve moved on with their lives. But for him the memory of Guinevere is fresh. For him, it’s only been a few days since he last saw her in their tent on the edges of the battlefield.

Arthur can only stare at her. Like Leon, she’s older than the Gwen of his memories. She still wears her hair in long tresses, the top framed away from her face in a complex looking plait, but there are silver strands woven through it now. Fine lines frame her mouth and crinkle around the corners of her eyes. Motherhood has filled out her figure, shaping her body in a lush hourglass. And she’s more beautiful than ever. She looks like the woman Arthur imaged he’d be spending his life with. The one who would be by his side at the throne, who would raise their children, and who would grow old with him.

And she _is_ that woman, but it’s someone else she’s beside and whose children she’s raising and who she’ll be growing old with.

He wants to feel angry – at her or at Leon, he doesn’t know – that they’ve moved on without him, but all he feels is empty.

“Mother,” the elder boy says anxiously from behind his parents into the awkward silence that has fallen in the room. “What’s going on?”

Leon shushes him, “Later, Elyan. Take Thomas and Ruthie back to the living quarters.”

“But, father!” It’s Thomas that protests.

“No arguing,” Leon says firmly. His voice softens and he adds, “We’ll explain later. Go on now, all of you.”

“Yes, father.” Elyan takes both of his siblings by the hand and leads them out of the room. Leon steps away from Gwen long enough close the door and then he returns to her side. “Gwen?” he asks gently.

Gwen finally finds her voice. “Arthur? I don’t understand?” She looks up at Leon, for his guidance, and he nods to encourage her to continue. “Is it… really you?”

Arthur smiles slowly and inclines his head. “Yes, Guinevere.”

Leon confirms it when Gwen still looks as unsure as Leon had at first. “It really is him, Gwen.”

“Where have you been?” she cries out, voice breaking. “We thought you were dead.”

“I was,” Arthur hurries to tell her. He doesn’t want her thinking he’s been alive this whole time. That he’d ever have left her alone if he could help it. “At least, as far as I know I was. But honestly, Gwen, I don’t know what’s happened here. I woke up this morning on the shore of a lake when the last thing I remember was dying beside it.”

“How is this possible?” Gwen looks back up to Leon, like he might have some sort of answer.

He just shakes his head. “We don’t know. But he’s really here, and he’s really our Arthur, of that I’m sure.”

She turns her gaze back to Arthur and looks uncertain. “I don’t know what to think. I mean, I want to believe it, of course I do. But it’s just so…” she lifts her shoulders helplessly.

“Impossible?” Arthur suggests. “Unbelievable. Believe me, Gwen, I’m thinking all those same things. For me it’s only been a few days since I saw you, so all of this is quite, umm… surprising.”

Gwen catches on right away. “Oh, Arthur. I’m sorry. This must be such a shock for you.”

“So,” Arthur gestures loosely in the air at the pair of them. “You two… are, uh…”

Arthur recognizes the expression that crosses Gwen’s face at the question. Her nose scrunches up and her mouth pulls to the side; she’s a little embarrassed and a bit guilty, like she’s done or said something inappropriate. But she nods and says, “Yes, Arthur.”

“But you’re still Queen?” he asks - almost insists - because he can’t imagine the Kingdom in anyone else’s hands. When he’d handed over his royal signet to Gaius to bring to Gwen, it was because he truly believed she was the best thing for Camelot.

“Yes,” Gwen assures him. “Leon is my husband, but as Knight Consort.”

Arthur gives a quick little nod at that because that’s good. It’s as it should be.

In truth, he’s not all that surprised about Leon and Gwen. Leon always did have a soft spot for her. They were friends as children and he’s been as loyal to her as he had to Arthur.

“I just don’t even understand how you’re here, Arthur.” Gwen says, obviously wanting to change the subject. “We were told about…” she sniffles. “We were told that you didn’t make it, but we didn’t even have a body to bring to the catacombs. We never really knew what happened. Not really.”

“Didn’t Merlin tell you this?” Arthur asks, because he can’t believe Merlin wouldn’t have explained what had happened in those last few days and hours.

The look Gwen and Leon exchange – mournful and speaking volumes about shared pain - sends ice down Arthur’s spine.

“No,” Gwen shakes her head. “No, we’ve not seen Merlin since that time either.”

“What?” Arthur blurts out, incredulous. “What do you mean?”

“Merlin’s not come back. He’s never been back to Camelot. We found out that you…” she hesitates over saying it. “That you’d died from Percival.”

Arthur frowns. From Percival? “I don’t understand.”

“Percival followed you there,” Leon explains. “Well, he followed Morgana to Avalon to stop her finding you, but he was the last person to speak to Merlin. Percival also brought back the news of Morgana’s death. He found her body. Was that you?”

Arthur shakes his head, and he laughs but it’s a dark sound that comes from somewhere deep in his gut. “No. No, _that_ was Merlin.”

“Merlin?” Gwen echoes. “I don’t… how?”

“He ran her through with a sword,” Arthur says, still somewhat incredulous at the memory himself. He’d never thought of Merlin as bloodthirsty, but there’d been no mercy in him when he drove Arthur’s sword through Morgana’s chest. Arthur remembers feeling so many things for Merlin at that point. Pride, fear, sorrow…

He shakes the memory away and his hand goes to the weapon at his side. “_This_ sword, actually. Just like the one that killed me, it’s enchanted. Merlin said it had been forged in the fires of a dragon’s breath. It was the only thing that could kill her. And Merlin did. And then he tried to save me.”

“Gaius had told us as much,” Gwen confirms. “At least that Merlin was with you. That he’d found you on the battlefield and was trying to save you by taking you to Avalon.” Gwen steps closer to him, leaving Leon’s side for the first time. She looks back at her husband with a peculiar expression; one that he can apparently read because he smiles briefly and then nods as if she gave some kind of instruction.

Another pang of loss stabs at Arthur’s heart. He doesn’t know if he and Gwen could ever read each other that well.

Leon clears his throat. “I’m just going to go and check on the children. Make sure they’ve gotten off to bed.” He gestures to the door. “I’ll give the two of you some time to talk.”

Arthur starts to protest. It’s a far too generous offer for Leon to make. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to do the same were he in Leon’s place. And that’s another thing that speaks volumes about the maturity of the relationship between Leon and Gwen.

“No, Arthur,” Leon interrupts before Arthur can get a word out, holding out a forestalling hand. “It’s all right. I think this is something you both need.” He goes to the door and just before shutting it behind him he adds, “Find me in the great hall when you’re done?”

Gwen nods her assent. “Of course. Thank you, Leon.”

He flashes another of those brief but genuine smiles and then closes the door behind him.

Gwen turns back and stares at him for a long moment. Then something within her seems to snap and she cries out, “Arthur!” and runs to him. She throws her arms around his neck and presses her face into his shoulder.

His arms come up on instinct, wrapping around her, holding her tight.

He breathes in the scent of her. Even the smell of her hair is familiar.

It’s almost too much, to feel this, to hold her and to know that she’s not his. A part of him wants to feel betrayed but he can’t blame her, and he can’t hold on to something that he doesn’t have any longer. He slides his hands up to Gwen’s shoulders and gently pushes her away. She clings for a moment, doing that thing with her mouth where it looks like she’s biting both her lips, but then she nods and steps back.

There are damp tracks down her cheeks. “Sorry,” she whispers.

He squeezes her shoulders. “It’s all right, Gwen,” he reassures her. “But…” He’s not sure where to go with that thought.

“I know,” she agrees and smiles gamely. She visibly collects herself and takes a step back, out of his grip.

There’s a low bench behind a barrel filled with tatters of dusty cloth and Arthur draws it out and gestures for her to sit next to him. “So, Elyan?” he asks when she’s settled and has wiped away her tears with a voluminous sleeve. “He’s your oldest then?”

“Yes. Named for my brother, of course.” Her sweet smile returns. “Leon suggested that.”

“And Thomas for your father?”

Gwen nods. “Yes, and for Leon’s father as well. They were both called Thomas, if you recall?”

“Right,” Arthur says. “Right. I’d forgotten that Leon’s father was also a Thomas.” He hadn’t known Leon’s father well, but he’d been a member of Uther’s court. He thinks it’s quite fitting that Gwen’s named her two sons after her father and brother. “And your daughter? Ruthie?”

Gwen’s eye well up again. “Oh, Arthur. She’s named for _you_. Elyan was almost your namesake,”–she goes on apologetically–“but it was too hard. It was still too soon, even three years later. Four years after that, when Ruthie was born, we decided on something that would honor you, but not be quite so hard to hear ourselves say. We call her Ruthie, but her name’s Aruthia.”

“Aruthia?” he repeats. He supposes they really couldn’t go with Arthur for a girl, but the name feels too unwieldy and formal for such a lovely little girl. “Ruthie.” He likes the sound of that better; it makes him smile. “That is a bit easier on the tongue.”

The laugh that Gwen lets out is light and sweet. “Yes, it is.”

“How long after…” Arthur hears himself start to ask and he bites his tongue before finishing the question. “No, never mind,” he hurries to say before she can answer. “It’s not my business.”

“Of course it is, Arthur.” She puts a hand over his forearm where it’s draped on his knee. “I can’t imagine how this must be for you. At least for me it’s been years, but it’s only been a few days for you, hasn’t it?”

He nods slowly.

“I just can’t even imagine how terrible it must be to face this. Coming back to your life and your home and expecting everything to be the same, only to find that seventeen years have passed. I can’t fathom how difficult it must be.”

Arthur is forced to agree. “It’s not been easy, I’ll admit. Everything is such a shock. But, still, I think there’s a part of me that knows that time has passed, even if I don’t remember it passing. It’s very confusing.” He hefts his shoulders wearily and tries to refocus on something less frustrating. “So, you and Leon then; when did that happen?”

Gwen doesn’t protest the change in subject and her tone is lightly wistful as she speaks. “It was two years after you were gone. He was by my side, as you can imagine, the whole time. He’s the only reason I made it through at all. Well, he and Percival. They both helped me manage the kingdom. But Leon was always there. And we’ve been friends since childhood.”

Her gaze goes a bit distant, and the curve of her mouth slightly secretive. “One day I realized that when he looked at me, it wasn’t with the eyes of a knight or an advisor, but as a man who loved me.” She blinks and looks down and away. “But even then, it was too soon, and he understood that. Until a few months later when I realized I was looking back the same way.”

“I understand.” Arthur grins and it’s heartfelt. “He always did have a soft spot for you, Gwen. Even long before you and I were together, he was fond of you.” Something else in the particular way she’d said something catches his attention and he asks after it with trepidation. “Leon and Percival? No one else? What about Gwaine?”

Gwen sighs, heavily. “Oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry. We lost Gwaine at the same time as you.”

Another loss, another landmark erased from his map. Arthur must swallow against the knot twisting up his throat. Perhaps it’s a blessing that all these shocks are coming at once, because he doesn’t really have time to think about them or feel them. He knows it’s going to catch up sooner than later, but now it’s just one more bit of heart-bludgeoning news after the next.

He thinks about the last time he saw Gwaine, somewhere amidst the chaos that was the battlefield, his sword and fierce grin ever-ready. “Was it at Camlann?” He really doesn’t know who walked away from that battle. Somewhere, deep beneath it all, he _is_ grateful that at least a few of his friends are still alive.

“No,” Gwen shakes her head. “He returned from the battlefield.” Her expression goes flinty. “There was a woman. I don’t know if you’ll remember, but she came back with him after Stowell was sacked.”

“I do remember.” Arthur nods. “I’d only met her briefly. There was so much going on at the time. Eren? Eira? Or something like that?” In truth, he remembers very little except being surprised at how fast Gwaine’s infatuation seemed to come. But he’d been far too preoccupied with the coming battle to pay close attention.

“Yes, Eira. It turned out that she was one of Morgana’s agents.”

Arthur groans. “Of course she was.” He probably should’ve realized. Morgana had recruited so many to her cause and infiltrating Camelot was one of her oldest tricks. “How did you find out?”

“Gaius learned as much from Merlin.” Gwen’s mouth thins. “It seems that she shared news of Camelot’s plans with Morgana before the battle. And after, when the battle was won and most of the army had returned to the city, she tried to alert Morgana to your location.”

She reaches out and places a hand over Arthur’s arm. “We wanted to give Merlin every advantage to get you to Avalon and Eira didn’t know we’d found her out. And so, we ensured she sent word to Morgana that you were riding north, to Brineved.” She lifts her chin, face set with resolve. “She still tried to deny that she’d betrayed Camelot, but I’ll be honest I felt little remorse in having her hung for treason.”

Ordering the death of a subject was never an easy decision, and it’s one he wishes he could have spared her. But there’s more to the story than that, so he asks, “What happened?”

She sighs but continues. “I think Gwaine felt especially guilty over her betrayal, and he and Percival devised a plan of their own.”

Arthur catches on immediately. “They knew where she’d be heading.” He can’t fault their thinking. It’s exactly the kind of plan he’d have come up with. “A perfect opportunity to set a trap for her.”

Gwen’s smile is crooked and brittle. “Exactly. I didn’t even know they went or I’d have stopped them or… I don’t know, ordered a patrol to accompany them. They didn’t tell Leon or anyone what they’d planned; they just rode out. And they _did_ manage the ambush and caught Morgana unawares. Percival ran her through.” She swallows and her voice catches on the next words. “But she was too powerful.”

“She killed Gwaine?” Arthur asks, though he knows the answer already.

“Yes.” Gwen’s hand comes up off his arm so she can press the back of it to her mouth. It takes her a moment to compose herself. “Yes, but not before she tortured him. And that’s how she learned the truth of where you were. That’s how she found you.” She swallows again and breathes out heavily. “I don’t think Percival’s ever stopped blaming himself.”

“He shouldn’t,” Arthur protests.

“I know. And we’ve tried to tell him that. I think there were moments where it was almost too hard for him to go on...” Gwen swipes at her eyes. “We almost lost him too, I think. Or came very close. Leon’s told me some things. I um…” She goes quiet a moment. Whatever she’s not saying is obviously Leon’s secret to keep. “We both leaned on him so much in the beginning and ran him ragged just to show him how much we still needed him and to keep him too busy to think on it all.” She shrugs, as if she’s not sure that’s the reason Percival didn’t give up, or not. “Even now, though, I know he’s still haunted by it.”

“I know it will likely be cold comfort to Percival,” Arthur says slowly, musing aloud as much as responding to her, “but I think that was meant to have happened. Morgana _had_ to find us so Merlin could finish it. He was the only one who could.” He lets his gaze shift back from middle-distance to focus on Gwen. “He had magic. Merlin.”

It feels so strange to make that admission aloud, but he’s unsurprised at Gwen’s acknowledging nod.

“I know. I figured it out and Gaius confirmed it after the battle. He was the old sorcerer, the old man, who turned the tide of the battle. When he returned to Camelot after tending you in the woods, Gaius told us about your wound and that Merlin was trying to save you.”

“Why did he never come back?” Arthur asks her, somewhat desperately. “You’ve not heard from him at all?”

Gwen shakes her head sadly. “No. No we haven’t. At least not Leon or myself. I do know that Gaius had at some point, but he’s never come back to Camelot. And, as far as I’m aware he’s never told Gaius where was or what he was doing.” She lets out a mournful little sigh. “I know that he felt he failed you, that he failed all of us, even if we know otherwise. I don’t know why he couldn’t come home to us.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to make of that. He’d been relying on finding Merlin here, in Camelot. Beyond just needing to know what’s happening, he needs to see Merlin again. The memories of their last few days and hours and moments are so raw in his mind. There’s so much that went unsaid, and so much he wants to know and understand.

As much as he always imagined a life with Gwen in it, he’d never even considered a future without Merlin there as well. And even in his dying days, he thought that Merlin would return to Camelot and to Gwen and Gaius and their friends. It gave him some measure of comfort, at the last, to know they’d still have each other.

Gwen and Leon and even Percival and Gaius all had each other.

Merlin was somewhere out there, alone.

He doesn’t know what to do now. If no one in Camelot knows where to find Merlin, he’s not sure how to begin. Maybe there are still some of Gaius’ effects stored somewhere that he could sort through? Perhaps there’s a clue to be found.

“When did you lose Gaius?”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur gestures around him at the dusty, forgotten chamber.

“Oh!” Gwen clutches his hand and squeezes, eyes crinkling in joy. “No, no. Arthur, Gaius is still alive.”

For some reason Arthur can’t comprehend that. He tugs loose of Gwen’s grip to wave loosely at the room once again. “But what about–”

“We moved him out of here years ago,” Gwen explains in a rush. She seems so desperately relieved to finally have some happy news to share. “He’s got new rooms in the family quarters. It was too much for him to be on his own. He’s retired now.” She rolls her eyes fondly. “Well, as retired as Gaius can be. He’s quite old, as I’m sure you can imagine, but he’s stubborn as ever.”

Just thinking on what seventeen more years would look like on Gaius has Arthur shaking his head in disbelief. “Gaius was old when I was a boy. I can’t believe he’s still alive.”

“Oh, he is.” Gwen’s smile is bright and beautiful and everything Arthur loved about her. “We’ll take you to him first thing tomorrow. He’s going to want to see you and will probably chide me terribly for not waking him yet tonight. But he _is_ old, and he needs his rest.” She says the last with a mother’s firmness and then shrugs a bit culpably. “And he’ll be able to tell you about Merlin. I suspect he knows more than he’s ever let on.”

There’s a part of him that wants to demand Gaius be woken immediately so he can see him and speak to him. Not just because he wants answers, but because he needs to see another person he knows alive and well. But Arthur pushes that urgency aside and just nods his appreciation. “That would be terrific, Gwen.”

He asks after the state of the Kingdom then, because he can’t help but wonder how things have fared in his absence.

She tells him about the difficulty of things in the beginning, with neighboring Kingdoms questioning Camelot’s strength after the death of her King. And she’s clearly prideful when she goes on to tell him of the ways that she and Leon proved that Camelot still stood strong. There were battles won and truces forged and even a few strong-armed negotiations, but all the lands have known a lasting peace.

He’s not entirely surprised to learn that the laws against the use of magic have been repealed and that Camelot has made allies of the druid people. For some reason he can’t quite put a finger on, that news fills Arthur with an odd warmth and sense of well-being.

She talks of other changes in the kingdom and the city and the castle itself. He wasn’t imagining the improvements in the roads, or the way the lower city looked so clean and neat and prosperous. It makes sense though; that under Gwen’s rule the people of Camelot would be well looked after. She’s more one of them than he ever was.

It’s some time later that he looks up at the candles, though he can’t tell how far they’ve burned. “It’s getting late, Gwen. I don’t want to keep you from your family too long.”

“Oh, Arthur. My family will understand. Leon can manage getting the children off to bed on his own for an evening.” Her nose wrinkles as she grins. “But, you’re right that it’s already late and I suspect that a good night’s rest would be good for all of us. It’s certainly been quite an evening.” She laughs softly and then her face goes thoughtful. “I’m afraid I can’t give you your old room back, but we can put you up in the guest quarters tonight.”

“That would be fine, Gwen. Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Arthur. This is still your home. And,” she bites at her lower lip. “And I don’t know what the laws are regarding a King who’s come back from the dead. Or if there are any laws at all, as I’m sure this sets a precedent.”

“What do you mean?”

Gwen lifts a hand towards him. “You were the King, Arthur. I only became Queen because you… died. I won’t keep your crown from you.”

Arthur leans back and waves his hands in a firm negation. “Oh no, Guinevere. I wouldn’t even dream of suggesting it.” He stills his hands, folding them over hers where they’re clasped tightly in her lap. “My time is done, Gwen. I know that. And even from what little I’ve seen of the city, I can tell that she prospers under your leadership. I always knew you’d be a wonderful Queen, Guinevere and I was proud to have you take my place.” He fixes his gaze on her, wanting her to see his sincerity. “And besides, I think I’m here, that I’ve come back, for a reason, but it is not to rule Camelot.” He frowns, not sure why the thought suddenly appears in his mind. “I think it’s got to do with Merlin, to be honest.”

Though she hides it well, Arthur can see that she’s relieved. “Well then, we’ll have to find a way to get you to him, won’t we? But in the morning.” She stands and tugs him up with her. “Thank you, Arthur.” She throws her arms around him again and pulls him close.

He lets himself relax into the embrace much more fully this time. She’s both the Gwen he knew and an entirely different woman and though he knows he’ll still mourn the loss of her, he’s starting to feel some acceptance of that.

“One more thing, Gwen, before we say goodnight.”

She draws back from her hold to look up at him but doesn’t let go. “What is it?”

“Tell me, are you… I mean, you and Leon. You’re happy, right?”

There’s that smile again; the bright and beautiful one that could hold no censure or guile. The sudden glisten in her eyes is belied by the look of genuine joy on her face. “Yes, Arthur. We are. He is so good to me, and so dear, and I love him so much.” She puts a hand to his cheek. “It wasn’t like you and I: so youthful and full of all that passion and intrigue and the need to keep things secret, and then all that darkness and heartbreak we caused each other.” The smile changes into something more peaceable and content. “It was just two friends growing closer and watching the bond that already existed between them grow into something more.” Her expression wobbles and one of the tears drips off her lashes. “Leon has my heart now, but you must know that I will always love you, Arthur.”

Arthur covers the hand on his cheek and holds it tight. “And I you, Gwen. But I am truly happy for you and for Leon. Truly. The life you have with him, and your beautiful children; it’s everything I could have ever wanted for you.”

That gets him drawn into another fierce hug and he can feel the wetness on her cheeks press against his neck. He cups the back of her head and smoothes it over her hair.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a knock at the door, soft and discrete.

Gwen disentangles herself but doesn’t step too far away. “Leon, it’s all right,” she calls out.

“Arthur,” Leon says from the doorway. “I hope you don’t mind?”

“Mind?” Arthur frowns.

Leon steps into the room and a familiar figure follows him in. “I had to tell Percival.”

Percival is as big and brawny as ever, he’s still not wearing sleeves and he looks as white as the nightshirt he’s wearing.

“Arthur?” Percival’s voice is barely a whisper. He narrows his eyes and peers across the room at Arthur, as if that might somehow change what he’s seeing.

“Yes, it’s really me, Percival.” He waves him over. “Leon and Gwen have been through all of that. Just c’mere.”

Leon has to push at Percival’s shoulder to send the big man stumbling forward his first step, but once he’s got momentum he doesn’t stop until he’s crossed the room in four strides and has Arthur wrapped up in a truly ridiculous bear of a hug.

“Percival,” Arthur gasps out when the embrace goes on and on… and feels like it gets tighter and tighter. “I do have to breathe.”

He’s finally released, and Percival looks down at him with chagrin. “Sorry. Sorry. I just couldn’t believe it when Leon told me.”

Arthur laughs, perhaps just a hair wildly. “I’m still having trouble believing it myself, to be honest.” He hurries to add a preemptive, “And no, I have no idea how it’s happened or why. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

“Was it true, what Leon said?” Percival asks instead, skipping over the obvious, cocking his head and staring down at Arthur strangely.

Unsure just what Leon might have already told him, Arthur can only shake his head. “What do you mean?”

Percival’s grin goes sharp. “The waking up naked and half-drowned part.”

Arthur shakes his head again, not in answer but at the question itself, and his laugh loses just a little bit more of that slight edge of hysteria. “Yes, that much is true. At first I just thought I’d had a wild night at the tavern.”

Percival claps him on the arm – hard enough to jostle him into stutter-stepping to the side a half-pace – and shares in the laugh. “Certainly had our fair share of those, back then. Don’t quite recall any that ended up quite like that though.” He sobers after a few moments, laugh fading to silent regard. “It’s _really_ good to see you again, Arthur,” he says softly.

Arthur nods, “You as well, Percival.”

“Why don’t we all head back to the living quarters. Perhaps the council chamber.” Leon gives a nod to the guttering candles. “It might be more comfortable to continue catching up there.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Gwen agrees. “Though not for _too_ much longer,” she cautions with a nod to Arthur. “As late as it is, I think after this excitement we could all use some sleep. But we can at least make our plans for tomorrow. And I can arrange a room for you, Arthur.”

“That’d be lovely, Gwen. Thank you.”

Leon holds out an elbow and Gwen hooks her fingers around it and lets him guide her out of the room.

“Percival, would you walk with me?” Arthur asks, indicating with a jerk of his head that he’d like the pair of them to hang back a few paces.

“Of course.”

They wait until Gwen and Leon are several yards ahead before starting down the corridor.

“Look, Percival,” Arthur begins, unsure how to share his thoughts clearly, without upsetting his friend. “Gwen told me about what happened with Gwaine. How he died. And…that you blame yourself for Morgana coming after me.”

Percival’s whole body slumps and his head falls forwards. His voice is tight and low when he starts to respond, and hard to hear since he’s aiming his words at the floor. “I’m sorry, Arthur. We thought–”

“No,” Arthur interrupts, hating to see and hear the evidence of Percival’s too long held guilt. “It’s not your fault. Please, you must believe me. I uh, I’m not sure how to explain this, but I think… I think what happened with you and Gwaine was fated to happen. I think it _needed_ to happen that way.”

Percival stops walking and turns to stare down at Arthur, clearly puzzled. “I don’t understand. You’re saying Gwaine needed to die?”

Arthur stops as well, turning so that he can look Percival in the eye and shakes his head. “No.” Then he shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know, in all honesty. But if Morgana had found us, Merlin and me, any sooner and while she still had her Saxons with her, I don’t know that we’d have stopped her. The ruse to send her to Brenived kept her away when it was needed. So that when she _did_ find us, it was just her alone. She was desperate and overconfident both and I don’t think she really thought that Merlin could stop her.”

“How did he do it?” Percival asks. “How could he have killed her?” He slams the flat of a fist into the stone wall behind him and then rasps out, “I put a dagger all the way through her, to the hilt, and it didn’t stop her. She was that powerful.”

“My sword. This sword, actually.” He pulls it from his belt and holds it out at a ready position as if he’s waiting to begin sparring. “It’s been enchanted. Forged in the breath of a dragon, so Merlin said. Apparently so was the one that Mordred used on me.” He feels his pulse throb in the scar over his ribs.

Percival reaches out a hand towards the blade but then seems to think better of it. He’s quiet a moment, staring at the shining sword – or perhaps not even seeing it at all – until he finally gives a long, weary sigh. “Well, I suppose we had no way of knowing that’s what it would take.” He lifts his hand to scratch at the back of his neck. “Still, I wish we’d known it then. That it needed something more than just a regular blade. Maybe we could’ve found another way.”

Arthur looks down at the sword for a few moments before returning it to his belt, “I’m not sure if there _was_ any other way. But who’s to say.” He shrugs.

“So, you didn’t know about Gwaine? Morgana didn’t tell you?” Percival scowls. “I know how she likes to gloat.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, she didn’t get the chance.” He flashes a quick smirk. “Not to say she didn’t do a bit of gloating, when she thought she’d incapacitated Merlin and was coming for me. But then,” he shrugs. “As I said, Merlin had my sword and I don’t think she was expecting that.”

“I think I’m glad you didn’t know. About Gwaine. I mean, before you…” Percival trails off, one hand gesturing rather helplessly in the air towards Arthur.

“Me too,” Arthur agrees. Dying had been difficult enough. Well, dying was easy, actually. Dealing with all the thoughts he’d had time to think, and the realization of Merlin’s magic, and staying hidden from Saxons had been bad enough. Learning about poor Gwaine probably would’ve been more than he could handle at the time.

“So how did it happen then?” Percival asks. “Not just the you dying bit, but all of it?” Percival asks softly. “After the battle, we searched for you…”

“That is a very long story, my friend.” He gives a nod down the hallway where Gwen and Leon disappeared. “And probably one that’s better shared with everyone.”

“Right,” Percival agrees. “I mean, I saw Merlin after. The boat he’d laid your body on was already distant on the lake by the time I found him.”

‘What did he tell you?” Arthur asks urgently. He needs to know if there’s anything Merlin might have said that would explain why he’s not here now, why he never came back to Camelot. Or perhaps might even hint at what Arthur’s doing returned from the realm beyond.

Percival sighs again, heavily. “Not much, I’m afraid. He was… Merlin was in a bad way Arthur. I’ve never seen him like that. When I first came upon him he was on his knees by the shore. He was just staring out over the water. I don’t even think he heard me approach until I got close enough to touch him on the shoulder, even though I’d been calling out to him the whole time.” Percival looks past him, clearly watching memories that are unfolding before his mind’s eye.

“The first thing he said to me was, ‘He’s gone. I failed him.’”

Arthur groans softly.

Giving a shake of his head and reaching up to thumb away moisture at the corner of an eye, Percival goes on. “I tried to question him, to ask him what had happened. I mean, I knew Morgana was dead. I’d come across her body while following you. But Merlin didn’t say much. He just told me that you were gone, and he kept saying that he’d failed you… something about a prophecy?”

Arthur can only shrug. “I don’t know all of the details, but apparently the events at Camlann were foretold and Merlin tried to prevent it happening. You know about the magic?” Arthur asks, “That Merlin was the old Sorcerer on the ridge who turned the tide of the battle?”

Percival nods. “We learned as much after Gaius came back to Camelot. I think Gwen figured it out, but Gaius confirmed it. Gwen told a few of us.”

“Well, Merlin thought he’d arrived in time, at Camlann, to defy this prophecy. We all saw the old Sorcerer decimate the Saxons.” Percival nods. “I guess Merlin felt he focused on the wrong thing. He attacked the Saxons, saving so many lives, instead of finding Mordred first thing.” Arthur feels another slight pang in the knot of scar tissue on his chest, and he remembers –too vividly- Merlin apologizing to him for that. He remembers the desperation in his voice and tears in his eyes as he held so tight to Arthur’s arm and made his confessions.

With a hoarse little grunt, Arthur shakes that memory away. “I can’t uhm, can’t say that I blame him for his choice, and it’s the one I would’ve made. Still,” he protests, “no matter the cause, I can’t believe it kept him away from Camelot all these years. It’s not what he deserves.”

“We’ve never understood what it is that’s kept him away. Leon and I tried to find him quite a few times. Hell, we still ask around every time we’re on patrol.” Percival shakes his head. “Never had any luck. And Gaius just told us we’d probably not find him if Merlin didn’t want to be found.”

Arthur smiles grimly. “I think I’ll have to challenge that. I’m fairly certain that whatever magic or…” He lifts a hand and gestures in the air between them vaguely, “Whatever _this_ is that brought me back, has something to do with Merlin. I’m sure of it. I mean to find him and bring him home.”

Percival claps him hard on the shoulder. “Good. I think it’s long past time.”

They continue down the hall, catching up with Leon and Gwen who were obviously waiting just out of earshot to give them privacy. It’s quite clear that the two had some of their own discussion, as Gwen’s eyes are freshly red, and there’s a damp patch on Leon’s tunic.

“Everything all right?” Leon asks, shifting worried eyes from Arthur to Percival.

“Yeah,” Percival confirms.

Arthur nods. “Yes. Everything’s good,” he agrees. “You both okay?”

Leon’s shoulders ease down in relief while Gwen sniffles but nods. “Yes. Just um,” she lets the thought go unfinished, but Arthur nods because he does understand. It’s been a strange night for all of them and emotions are running high.

Gwen starts them all walking again. Clearly trying to keep the focus on simple, easy distractions, she points out little changes here and there in the castle as they go. “We’ve moved the guest quarters to the east wing and have given over that whole south hall to the staff.” Her tone is somewhat wry. “It never made sense to me that Uther used to let an entire wing of the castle go empty, yet didn’t offer lodging to those who worked for him and could use a room.” She turns an apologetic frown to Arthur. “Um, well, in my days as a servant it was definitely a bit of a frustration. No offense.”

With a knowing grin, Arthur waves that away. “None taken, Gwen. I remember all the times we talked about that before I became king.” He wonders, for a moment, if it might be uncomfortable to mention their shared past like this, the private conversations they’d had when their relationship was so secret and so new. Gwen is sharing his smile though, and Leon doesn’t look at all bothered. “I always meant to get around to fixing that. I’m glad you did.”

Leon puts an arm around Gwen’s shoulder. “She’ll say she did it for purely logical reasons, since that section of the castle is closer to the kitchens and the laundry, but we know she’s thinking with more than just her head in this case.”

“They earn a fair wage,” Gwen interrupts, just a tad sharply. “And it _is_ a logical solution.” She softens then, sheepishly eying Leon. “And perhaps I remember my days working in the keep a bit too well.”

That just prompts Leon to squeeze Gwen tighter to him.

“You can take the Queen out of the laundry, but you can’t take the laundress out of the queen, apparently,” Percival quips.

Gwen reaches past Arthur and bats playfully at his arm and Percival dances out of her reach. Leon just chuckles at them both.

It’s such… comfortable, familiar banter between all three of them. These are people who have shared much and grown close in doing so. Arthur isn’t being made to feel left out, they’re sharing their humor with him, but he feels apart from it nonetheless. Still, he braves a quick laugh.

They reach the Council chamber, and it takes Arthur a moment to realize they’ve arrived as it looks nothing like the austere, cold place of his memories.

The long table has been replaced with a smaller one, suitable for a more intimate conversation, and the stark stone pillars are hung with bright banners. There are large sconces, ringed with burning candles throughout the room, chasing away the gloom that he remembers lingering in the corners. Even the chairs are set with heavy pillows that look quite comfortable (he can still recall, all too well, the sore backside that resulted from overlong sessions in council).

As he takes a seat Arthur wonders, briefly, if the massive round table is still in its place in the Throne Room. He hopes so. That had been one of the changes he’d made as king that he’d been most proud of. Though, he likes the look of this room, and all he’s seen of the castle so far. It makes him wonder at what other improvements Gwen might have made.

He’ll have to do some wandering when, and if, time permits.

Gwen must’ve spoken to a servant at some point because one arrives bearing a tray laden with a large pitcher and goblets while Leon is still standing behind Gwen’s chair, waiting politely for her to take her seat. “Some wine, I thought, might be nice,” Gwen offers as she takes the seat to Arthur’s left, at the ‘head’ of the table. Leon sits opposite him, at Gwen’s side while Percival takes the chair to Leon’s left.

There’s the smallest part of him that wonders if they’re not sitting next to him out of any kind of lingering doubt or fear. He chastises himself almost immediately for thinking it.

“Arthur,” Gwen begins, once they’re all settled and the wine has been poured and shared out, “I don’t want this to be uncomfortable for you, but would you be willing to tell us about that last day of the battle?” She crinkles her nose apologetically. “I admit, it’s something I think we’re all curious about. Gaius told us as much as he could, as much as he knew, but I’ve always wondered about what happened.”

Arthur nods, but he takes a slow drink from his glass to give himself a moment to think about how to begin. His memories of the battle should be as clear as if he’d experienced it only a few days ago, but they’re not. It’s all a bit of a blur, really.

He tries to explain. “Well, I think that anyone of us,” he gestures to Leon and Percival, and then to Gwen because she’d been as mired in it as any of them, “could describe the battle. Most of it just happened so fast. And we were outnumbered, really. Overwhelmed. Though, we were rallying, I think.” He forces a quick smile. “Still, it was a battle as any other; there was nothing really remarkable until the Sorcerer…” he trails off, letting out a sigh.

Even after Merlin’s admission, he still has trouble believing that the old, bearded man wielding bolts of lightning like some kind of ancient deity, was _Merlin_.

He tries again, forcing himself to say it. “It wasn’t until… Merlin arrived and used his magic that truly the tide was turned. I just remember watching as the Saxons all around me were struck down again and again.” He shakes his head. “After that, we pressed our advantage, routing the rest of them. I must’ve… I guess I’d gotten ahead of the rest of my troops. I dispatched one last man, and I thought for a moment it was done. Until Mordred showed up.” The memory of Mordred’s expression, of that last odd little smile, flashes though Arthur’s mind.

Signing heavily, Arthur runs both hands over his face, pressing them flat and sighing into the cup of his palms a moment before letting them fall away. “Maybe I didn’t really think he’d do it. I mean, I’d trusted him, made him one of us.” He spreads his hands. “I think I’d hoped that when he was faced with the choice, he wouldn’t make it. But, Morgana’s hold on him was too strong, and I should’ve turned away that final blow, but I didn’t. He put his blade right through my ribs.” It’s a difficult admission to make.

There’s a long, heavy silence. The scar twinges, and Arthur resists the urge to rub at it.

“Did he say anything?” Percival asks softly.

Arthur nods. “Just that I gave him no choice.”

Leon scoffs. “We know that’s not true.”

It’s no surprise to Arthur to hear bitterness from both of them. They’d befriended Mordred, taken him under their wing, and treated him as much a younger brother as a fellow knight. His betrayal wasn’t just to Arthur, but all of them.

“We found his body,” Leon adds softly. “That was you?”

Arthur nods. “I think he was glad when I returned the blow,” he admits. “He smiled, at the end. I think he was glad that it was done.” He’s had a bit of time to think about that smile. There’s a part of him that can’t entirely blame Mordred for his actions.

“So, is that when Merlin found you?” Gwen asks.

Shaking off his musings, Arthur nods. “Yes. It must be. I mean, I don’t remember it, I’d passed out I think. But that’s the last thing I remember on the battlefield. When I woke next it was in the woods, next to a fire.”

“It must’ve been when Merlin took you,” Leon agrees. “Right after the Saxons were routed, I sent two-hundred men after those fleeing, and another three-score to searching the battlefield for survivors. We looked for you, for days after. Even after we quit the field and returned to Camelot, we continued to search, but no one saw anything.”

“Didn’t Gaius tell you?” Arthur wonders. He’d been in and out of consciousness, and in incredible pain through those last days, but he remembers that last talk with Gaius.

Gwen lays a hand on the table and Leon takes hold of it. “Gaius was missing at first as well. He disappeared after the battle, just as you did. It wasn’t until we were already back in the city that Gaius came back and told us that you were with Merlin. That’s also when he told us about Eira.”

Arthur slowly nods. “Right. It must’ve been a day later then. Or two? It was night when I first awoke after the battle. That was when Merlin told me the truth. That he’d been the old Sorcerer.” He shakes his head, unable to hide a wry smirk. He’d been so _sure_ Merlin was lying. “I didn’t believe him at first. Told him he was being stupid; that if he were a sorcerer I would know it.”

Arthur snorts noisily, half disbelief half derision.

“What made you believe?” Percival asks.

“He showed me. Made the cinders of the fire form the shape of a dragon. I uh, didn’t react well.” He admits that rather shamefully.

“It must’ve been quite a shock,” Gwen says. She holds out her other hand, offering it to Arthur. He takes hold of it and gives it a squeeze, but it doesn’t feel right to let the hold linger.

“I think it was the next morning that Gaius found us.” Arthur goes on. “When he first spoke to me, I tried to warn Gaius about Merlin but naturally, he already knew.” He huffs out a laugh that’s still just a shade self-mocking.

“Gaius has known about Merlin since the very first day he came to Camelot,” Gwen tells him, her own smile just as wry.

Arthur groans, but it’s with amusement more than anything. “Of course he did. Gaius also told me that Merlin wasn’t only a sorcerer, but was perhaps the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth.” He looks for a reaction to that, but everyone just nods. This obviously isn’t news to them. Still, Arthur must admit, “I may have had a bit of trouble believing that as well. I mean… he’s _Mer_lin.”

His gaze goes around the table once more, unsurprised that everyone is wearing a similar, fond expression.

“I’d wanted to send Merlin back to Camelot at first, to let you know that I was still alive. I wasn’t… well,” he’s chagrined by the admission. “I was still upset with him, angry. But Gaius convinced me that Merlin was my best hope of getting to Avalon. It was the next morning, I think, when Gaius returned to Camelot.” He touches Gwen’s hand, which is still lying on the table between them. “That’s when I gave him my signet ring to bring to you.”

She nods. “He did. He told me that you were with Merlin, and that you were gravely wounded.” She presses her lips together a moment and Arthur can see her eyes starting to shine. Leon shifts closer in his chair, loosing his hand from hers and sliding it up her arm to curl over her shoulder. Gwen grins, small and quick, and leans into his hold.

“I’d offered to send troops. I’d have sent the whole of the army with him, if that’s what it took.” Gwen shakes her head, and he’s not sure if it’s regret or uncertainty he’s seeing in the motion. “But Gaius said that you stood a better chance with Merlin alone.”

Arthur gives a firm nod. “He was right. We needed to go alone. The lands were crawling with Saxons and only Merlin’s magic kept us clear of them. A larger patrol would’ve only complicated things.” Even if it was over a decade ago, he doesn’t want Gwen to feel as if she made the wrong decision.

Gwen flashes that brief, thin smile again. “And, like you said, that’s also when we learned about Eira’s betrayal. She’d been sending messages to Morgana, using Gwaine for information. We tried to use that to buy you and Merlin more time.”

Arthur already knows that Gwen had Eira executed for her treason.

Across the table, Percival slumps lower in his chair. “Gwaine was so angry. So damn angry. He needed to do something… to take some action after what Eira did to him.” And though he’s explaining to Arthur he looks over to Leon. “I know we should’ve spoken to someone about our plans, but we didn’t want anyone to stop us. You would’ve had to tell Gwen.”

Leon shakes his head adamantly. “No, I’d have done the same if you’d told me. You know I’d have ridden with you.” His voice is low, but fiercely intense.

“Even so, Gwen needed you here.”

This is clearly a discussion they’ve had before.

“Percival –”

Gwen holds up a hand, stopping them both. “Please, let’s not. I think it’s time we all stop letting this linger between us.” She reaches across the table, and dutifully Percival takes her hand, twining it tight in his. Leon takes his hand from Gwen’s shoulder and places it over the knot of their fingers.

It’s even more obvious, in the easy, familiar physicality, the profound connection the three of them share.

Softly Arthur says, “Things were fated to happen as they did. This was so much more than all of us. Much as I wish everything had turned out different.” He looks across to Percival. “I know that’s cold comfort, but…” he trails off, feeling helpless that he can’t give his friend more than platitudes.

To Arthur’s surprise Percival shakes his head. “No, I think it’s right. I mean, I think Gwaine would’ve been glad to know that his last actions led to Morgana’s downfall and brought about peace.”

Leon cups a hand over Percival’s shoulder and gives him a jostling squeeze.

Wishing to turn away from such dark thoughts, no matter that everyone seems to be accepting of them, Arthur looks back to Gwen. “So, what happened after that? After Eira was discovered.”

“I met with Gaius again. That’s when I asked him if he knew the Sorcerer from the battle.” She sighs, just a little sadly. “I knew it was Merlin before he told me. So many things seemed to just suddenly make sense once I put that together.”

Arthur can’t help but let out a quick, sharp breath that’s half exasperated exhale, half chuckle. “I cannot tell you how many times I had that very same thought during those days he tried to save me. I lost track of how many memories I reexamined with that new knowledge. How many strange occurrences and bits of odd luck that weren’t perhaps so strange or lucky after all.”

“Strange bursts of flame, with no wind to cause them,” Percival suggests, lips quirking in the barest smirk.

Leon nods slowly. “Rock falls. The earth shaking for no reason.”

Arthur feels his mouth pull to the side in growing amusement. “Inexplicably terrible bandits and raiders. Really, they were the worst. Dropping weapons, falling out of saddles, striking their own men. I always wondered how our enemies were so inept.”

That gets outright laughter from all of them.

“You’re all right with it all then?” Gwen asks after a moment when they quiet again. “I mean, you seem at peace with what you know of Merlin. It’s just, we’ve known for years now, about his being a sorcerer.” She gestures at the others. “And, magic is no longer outlawed. It’s, well, if not commonplace, it’s at least not something that’s hidden away any more. I just… I admit I’m a little surprised at how accepting you are of this.” She adds the latter statement gently, reaching out to squeeze his hand again.

“Well, he’s here, isn’t he?” Percival says, before Arthur can respond, punctuating the statement with another little bark of laughter. It’s just a trifle sharp. “I mean, it doesn’t get more real than that does it.”

Arthur nods his head again, and chuckles. “You’re too right, Percival. I mean”–he flips a hand towards himself–“hard evidence, isn’t it?”

They all share smiles, but Arthur is quick to sober, giving Gwen’s statement its deserved consideration. “In truth? I had a lot of time to think, Gwen,” Arthur explains. “After Merlin told me the truth, and after Gaius returned to Camelot, we spent the next days making our way to Avalon. We were taking care to avoid Saxons and the travel wasn’t easy due to my condition, so there wasn’t a lot of opportunity to talk. I did, however, have quite a bit of time to think.”

He pauses to empty his wine glass. Somehow there’s only a mouthful left, though he doesn’t remember drinking more than a few sips. He sets it down but waves away the offer for a refill when Leon motions for the pitcher.

“Though, we did talk some, as well,” Arthur admits in a softer tone. “Merlin and I. And I saw firsthand just how much he’d done, and that so much that he kept hidden was for me, for Camelot, for all of us.”

His memories of the things Merlin told him… profound things, words that struck at Arthur’s very soul aren’t ones he wants to share aloud. “I… had a chance to come to peace with it, I guess.” He forces a smile and knows it must look shaky. “With the end nearing, I guess it didn’t seem all that important. I mean, the fact that he never told me, and the fact of what he was. Is,” he corrects. “None of that really mattered in the end. He was just Merlin. My friend.”

And that certainly doesn’t seem a weighty or significant enough word to capture all that Merlin was… still _is_, to him.

But Gwen is nodding like it makes perfect sense. “I’m glad, Arthur. I wouldn’t have wanted you and he to be at odds at the end.” She tilts her head, expression serene as she tells him, “I told Gaius that I was pleased that it was Merlin. The sorcerer. And that I knew he’d take care of you. And though I wish I’d gotten–” she gives a little shake of her head, pressing her mouth tight for a moment. “I wish we’d _all_ gotten the chance to see you and to be with you at the end, I’m glad it was Merlin.”

Leon and Percival both nod their agreement.

Arthur opens his mouth to say more, but what comes out is a jaw-stretching yawn. When he closes his mouth on it, he offers a sheepish, “Sorry.”

“No, Arthur,” Gwen protests. “It’s late and you’ve had a very trying day. We should all get some sleep.”

Though he’s loathe to leave the company of his dearest friends, Arthur _is_ exhausted. It’s all catching up to him… waking up disoriented, the long journey to the city on foot, the shock of every new realization. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Gwen stands, decision made. “We could all use a good night’s sleep.” The men follow-suit. “Come along,” she waves Arthur after her, “I’ll take you to your room.”

It’s rather odd following Gwen through familiar halls and not turning down the corridor to his old room. The hallway she leads him to is around a corner from there, and she stops outside one of the guest rooms that Uther used to reserve for particularly important visitors. It’s across the hall from Morgana’s old room, though he’d long since stopped thinking of it that way.

“Here you are, Arthur. Leon and I are just down there,” she points to where the corridor ends in a double-doorway. He knew it as another infrequently-used guest chamber, though Arthur remembers it being rather large with connected servant’s quarters. “The kids are here as well, except Elyan who’s got your old room.”

Arthur nods along through her explanation.

“I’m just here,” Percival says, whispering enough to be heard from several feet further down the hall where he’s pointing a thumb at the doorway nearest Gwen and Leon’s room. It strikes Arthur as a bit odd that Percival, though First Knight, has a room in the same hallway as the Queen and Knight Consort, but he guesses he’s not mistaking that sense of ‘family’ he gets from the three of them.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow, then.”

Arthur’s not sure if it’s just the all of the emotion over everything that’s happened (which he can’t blame them for) or perhaps they’re all afraid his return from death might be some kind of shared delusion, and come tomorrow he’ll be gone again, but each of them hugs him again before parting for the night, firm and clinging just a bit too long.

Gwen is the last to embrace him and she sighs against him and presses a hand to his nape in weirdly motherly way. When she pulls back, she’s wearing that smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good night, Arthur. Sleep well.”

“You too, Gwen.”

He turns to go, and then stops as a thought occurs to him.

“Oh, before I forget!”

Gwen, already a few paces down the hall towards a waiting Leon, pauses and turns back expectantly. “What is it, Arthur?”

He’d almost forgotten his promise to Brenna. Conscious of sleeping children in rooms off the corridor, he walks the short distance back to her so he doesn’t have to raise his voice. “There’s a man staying the night at the Rising Sun. Bert is his name is. He’s there with his son, Jory. It was his wife who helped me out after I woke up at the lake, gave me these clothes.” He pulls at the hem of the homespun tunic.

“She refused payment as a point of pride, but asked if I could get word to her husband that he was to purchase some thread. Seems she forgot to ask him for it, and doubts he’ll remember on his own.” He chuckles, remembering Brenna’s comment about ‘the Queen herself’. He can easily picture Gwen sitting down at Brenna’s table and sharing her cozy home and a pleasant meal. “And, if it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to give him some coin as well. Brenna may have refused to be repaid for her kindness, but I’d like to do something nice for her if I can.”

Gwen smiles. “Of course, Arthur. I’ll have someone sent down to the tavern right away. And I’ll make sure he’s well compensated.” Her nose wrinkles when the grin turns impish. “And, if he refuses coin as well, we’ll just have to see that he returns home with enough thread, and perhaps other sundries, to show they’ve the thanks of the crown as well.”

“Thank you, Gwen.” He gestures down the hall. “I’ll just be off then.”

Gwen places a hand on his cheek, just pressing it there a moment. “Goodnight, Arthur.” Her expression is sort of wistful.

Arthur nods against her palm. “Night, Gwen.” He watches as she moves down the hall to rejoin Leon, returns Leon’s nod and then makes his way to the guest room they’ve had readied. There’s a night shirt and trousers laid out on the bed, and he barely manages to clumsily pull off the scratchy homespun and struggle into the nightclothes without nodding off still standing. He crawls into the bed and practically burrows under the thick comforter and is asleep before he’s fully nestled into the plump, feather-stuffed pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking the next morning is an exercise in frustration for Arthur. There are those first few moments when he starts to come to awareness and everything is _so_ familiar. The sounds of the castle just stirring – servants moving through the hallways, the distant noises of the lower town filtering faintly through a closed window – and the smell of bed linens – the lingering sharpness of soap and a hint of lavender sachets that are stored in the cupboards to keep the bedclothes fresh – even the angle of the sun filtering through the stained glass window and the drawn bed-curtains, they’re all so _right_.

Everything is so familiar in fact, feels so normal, that Arthur rolls over to his side and starts to call out for Merlin from sheer habit. Memory returns before he can even open his mouth and the name dies on his tongue, but the disappointment and frustration lingers. He sits up, pushing fingers through the bed-mussed tangle of his hair, and sighs.

“No Merlin,” he mutters. “Not my room.” He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes pressing until he sees spots behind closed lids. “Not my Camelot even...”

Arthur lets his hands fall to his lap, opens his eyes and blows out another breath and then tries very hard to rein in all the myriad feelings and words and sounds that want to come pouring out of him. It isn’t easy, but after a few long moments of staring into empty space, he manages to tamp down most of it and bottle it deep inside to be dealt with much later (and preferably within reach of something he can bash mercilessly with his sword).

He gets out of bed to find that he’s apparently missed a servant coming into his room, as there’s a breakfast tray set-up on the small table on the far side of the room, and a change of clothes stacked atop one of the chairs. There’s even a pair of boots set neatly on the floor behind it. A welcome site as he’s got blisters starting on his heels and one toe from the too-tight boots he walked in so long yesterday.

He strips off his borrowed nightshirt and finds that the ewer and basin have also been emptied and refilled with cool, clean water. Scrubbing away lingering sleep and clinging night-sweat, along with the bite of cold water against too-warm skin helps snap him fully awake and once he’s done washing he dresses in the clothes provided for him. The tunic – a familiar red with lacing at the neck - and trousers fit so well he knows they’re likely his old things. Even the belt is a perfect fit.

“It could almost be then,” he mutters, fitting his sword into the scabbard at his hip.

The meal tray contains a nicer selection than he’s used to – fresh fruits, small slabs of crumbly cheese, thick ham slices, pan-fried kippers, still-warm bread that’s thick with honey and butter – and he frowns when he realizes just how quickly his thoughts instinctively turned to wondering why Merlin might be trying to curry favor with him (not to mention the quickly quashed thought that he’ll have plenty left-over for Merlin to pick at; which he swore he never did, but somehow Arthur’s trays always ended up empty when they were returned to the kitchens).

Everything is as delicious as it looks and he’s hungry, but Arthur finds little real enjoyment in the meal. Despite trying to ignore them, he can’t help but feel frustrated with each of these tiny reminders that everything he knows is long gone, and it sours the taste of even the most delectable of morsels.

Arthur realizes how ridiculously maudlin he’s being after he pokes a knife into one of the small, crisp-skinned kippers and feels a pang because Merlin would’ve remembered that he was never fond of fish this early in the day. “That’s it,” he says, letting his utensil drop to the plate and pushing himself away from the table. “This is ridiculous,” he chastises himself. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Resolve bolstered, he heads out of his room and towards the royal dining room to see if Gwen and Leon are up and about. They said they’d take him to Gaius first thing and he’s anxious to speak with him. Not just to seek news of Merlin, but to speak to someone else he knows and who is familiar. He still can’t quite fathom that Gaius is even alive.

“Good morning, Arthur. Did you sleep well?” Gwen greets him brightly when he steps through the doorway. She’s seated at the very same table where he used to share meals with his father. From the mostly empty plates on either side, Arthur assumes that the children have been and gone.

“Morning, Gwen. And I did, thanks.” He joins her, pulling out a chair to her side as she’s sat at the head of the table.

She must be able to read something in his tone or his expression because her smile dims a bit. “Was there anything amiss? Or, were things just a bit too strange?” When he begins to frown at her insight, she shrugs. “I wondered if it might be difficult for you, waking up in the castle but not in your old room or your old bed.”

Arthur almost laughs, because of course Gwen understands. “It was a bit,” he admits. “When I first came awake I wondered why it was the sun in my eyes doing the waking instead of Merlin’s awful, chirpy greeting.” He forces his own grin at that, but again, Gwen can see right past the falseness of it.

She looks genuinely upset on his behalf. “I’m sorry, Arthur. That must’ve been a trying moment when you remembered.”

He waves that away. “It’s something I’m just going to have to get used to, Gwen. No use worrying over it.” He’s already spent enough of his morning being far too introspective, so he hurries on. “Thank you for having breakfast brought in, and for the clothes.” He gestures down at himself. “Perfect fit. Can I safely assume they were my, uh…old things?”

Gwen nods. “Yes. We’ve had them in storage.” She blushes faintly and ducks her head. “I couldn’t really bear to give them away or get rid of them. I thought they’d be nice for Elyan when he gets a bit older.”

Avoiding what is clearly a topic that will lead to more of the emotional journeys he’s trying to avoid, Arthur nods to the picked-over remnants of breakfast on the dish in front of him. “I missed the little ones, did I?”

Gwen’s motherly smile is even more radiant in the morning sunlight. “Yes, sorry. They’re up early no matter how much we try to urge them otherwise.” Her expression goes from fondness to exasperation and back again in the blink of an eye. “I’m sure you’ll see them later, but Ruthie and Thomas have lessons and young Elyan is down on the training field.”

Arthur lifts a brow at that.

“You’ll have to head down and see him, Arthur,” Leon says, picking up the conversation as he comes into the room. He passes by Gwen’s chair and drops a quick kiss on her forehead – clearly a regular routine - before taking a seat across from Arthur.

They look so comfortable together. So right.

“Elyan is shaping up to be almost as good a swordsman as you,” Leon continues.

“I’d like that,” Arthur replies agreeably. “Perhaps after we see Gaius?” He hopes he’s not sounding too pushy, but he’s anxious and seeing Leon and Gwen’s domestic bliss – not that he begrudges them such – is just another too keen reminder that he doesn’t belong here.

Gwen and Leon exchange a brief look – one that communicates more than Arthur can pick up on, clearly – and then Gwen responds, “Yes, that should work out fine.” She dabs at the sides of her mouth with a napkin and then sets it on the table. “In fact, I’m done here. Why don’t I take you up to see Gaius straight away?”

“If you’re sure,” Arthur counters, feeling that he’s rushed her. “I mean, I don’t want to interrupt anything you might have already planned for this morning. Crown business or anything of that nature.”

The looks Gwen shoots him is incredulous (albeit carrying the same exasperated fondness that she showed when talking of her kids). “Arthur, don’t be silly. You’re the most important thing there is right now. There’s nothing pressing with crown business that can’t be set-aside for a few hours, and honestly, unless someone was declaring war on Camelot, I can’t think of anything that would stop me helping you.”

Chagrinned, Arthur drops his chin to stare at his hands. “Thank you, Gwen.”

Percival enters the room then, and his expression looks guarded until he spots Arthur and then his face splits in a wide grin. “Good morning.”

“Percival,” Arthur says, returning the smile. It’s a good feeling that his friends are so pleased to see him. At least that’s still the same as he remembers.

Gwen adds a cheery, “Good morning, Percival”

“Have you both had breakfast?” Percival asks even as he sits down to the table.

“Yes,” Gwen replies. “I was up with the kids and I wasn’t sure when you’d both be done, so I had Arthur’s brought to his room. We’re going to be on our way to see Gaius, actually.”

Percival nods.

“We’ll join you both shortly,” Leon says, gesturing to a pair of full plates that were just carried in by a servant. “Percival and I were up with the knights to arrange an early patrol. Thank you, Ella,” he adds to the departing serving girl.

“That sounds good.” Arthur replies. He pushes away from the table and stands.

Gwen does likewise. “I’d not want to overwhelm Gaius, so it’s probably best if it’s just Arthur and I at first. We’ll see you both when you’re done here.” Nodding to them, she leads Arthur out of the main doors and to a side corridor that leads to the rooms they used to use for visiting dignitaries.

While they walk she explains. “Leon and I usually have breakfast together with the children, and Percival often joins us. But there’s been a rise in bandit activity along the Northern road and we’re sending out a patrol to investigate. Leon likes to manage those things personally.” She gives a small shake of her head, like she’s amused by that.

“Doesn’t delegate as much as you’d like him to, does he?” Arthur asks, understanding where the grin comes from. Even in his day, which is a strange way to think of it, Leon liked to stay involved as much as possible with the men under his charge. He’d never liked to seem as if he was putting himself above them, even when he was Arthur’s right-hand and First Knight. It another of those things that Arthur’s pleased to see hasn’t changed.

“No, he really doesn’t,” Gwen agrees, still smiling. “But it’s something I’ve grown used to. Though I still chide him for it, often.” She pauses. “Here we are.”

The room they stop outside is the furthest in the corridor and Gwen knocks softly. “Gaius?” she calls through the closed door. “Gaius are you awake?” She turns back to Arthur, chewing on her lip. “Usually his door is open if he’s not sleeping.”

She lifts her hand again to tap knuckles against the door once more but stops when the handle turns and it slowly opens.

A face Arthur doesn’t recognize peeks out from beside the door. “Who–” the man stops himself at seeing Gwen. “Oh, your Highness, I apologize. We weren’t expecting you.”

“Is everything all right?” Gwen asks. From the way her fingers are pulling at the trim on her gown’s sleeves, she’s nervous.

“Oh, yes,” the young man hurries to say. “Everything is fine. He’s just in a bit of a mood this morning.” He shakes his head, sighing. It’s a frustrated expression if Arthur’s ever seen one. “He tried some bit of magic this morning that failed. Now he’s sulking.”

Gwen clucks sympathetically, while Arthur can’t help but boggle at how casually they’re talking about magic. It’s clearly become something commonplace and Arthur finds the change quite appealing. He can only guess, but he’d like to think that Merlin would agree with him. In fact, he’s quite certain of that.

“Can you ask if I could see him? I’ve something extremely important to talk to him about. Um,” she chews her lip a moment more and the young man waits politely for her to finish her thought. “Please tell me truthfully, do you think he’s up for a bit of a shock this morning?”

The young man purses his lips as he ponders her question. “I think so, your Majesty. Despite the incident this morning, he’s quite alert and active today. Although I really don’t know what he’s complaining about, the spell worked but its recipient just wasn’t responding.” He adds the latter as a distracted afterthought. “At any rate, let me go ask him if he’s up for visitors at the moment. “He waits for Gwen’s nod of approbation and then ducks back into the room and closes the door until it’s cracked only a fraction.

“Thank you, Cullen,” Gwen calls out just as he moves out of sight.

“Why did you ask that fellow to tell you the truth? Is he a known liar?” Arthur wonders aloud.

“Oh no!” Gwen hurries to say even as a flush of pink touches her cheeks. “It’s just that Gaius is very, uh… _persuasive_ with his apprentices. He’s been known to convince them that he’s feeling better than he really is.” She turns toward Arthur and leans a shoulder against the doorframe. “Last summer he refused to tell them that he was having dizzy spells and he fell and injured his back. We were lucky that the dizziness had no serious cause, but the back injury seemed to age him so much more.” She holds out a hand and touches Arthur gently on the shoulder. “When you see him, remember that it’s been seventeen years. He’s… well, he looks quite aged.”

Arthur nods. “Of course.”

The door opens again, and the man called Cullen smiles at them both. “He’s ready for visitors. Just uh, please forgive him if he’s a bit grumpy.”

Gwen gives that maternal smile again. “We always do.” She waves Arthur after her and leads the way into the room.

For not being the room that Arthur has always seen Gaius in, it’s immediately obvious that this space could belong to no one else. Every tabletop and surface is covered in bottles and potions and open tomes and bubbling cauldrons. Myriad book-laden shelves line the walls interspersed with cabinets and crates stuffed to overflowing with plants and equipment and ephemera Arthur couldn’t even begin to guess at the purpose for. It even smells familiar: slightly acrid and herby with that odd hint of fresh-after-a-storm sky. There are at least two rooms off of the large main chamber that Arthur can see, and there’s a bed in an alcove that’s partially curtained-off. It’s there that Gwen leads him.

“Gaius,” Gwen calls out softly. “It’s Gwen.”

The voice that responds catches Arthur like a pang in his chest. It’s weak and thready, but so familiar. “Guinevere, come in, my dear.”

Arthur hangs back as Gwen steps past one of the tied back curtains. “Good morning, Gaius. You’re looking well this morning.”

“You’re too kind, your Highness. What is it can I do for you?”

There’s a brief silence, and the rustling of fabric. When Gwen speaks again, she’s further away. “I’ve got something I need to tell you about, Gaius, and I think it may be a bit of a shock.”

“Is everyone all right? Leon? The children?”

“Oh yes,” Gwen hurries to assure him. “Everyone is fine. It’s nothing that’s wrong, just something strange that’s happened.”

Arthur nearly snorts in amusement. Strange is an understatement.

“Oh?” Gaius asks, intrigued rather than alarmed. “What is it?”

“Well, you see, we have a visitor. Um, I’ve brought him to speak with you and I don’t want you to be alarmed when you see him. We suspect there’s magic involved in his being here.”

If Arthur isn’t entirely mistaken, Gaius doesn’t sound all that surprised when he responds, “Well who is it, dear? Bring him in.”

That’s Arthur’s cue. He steps into the alcove. There’s a wide window against the back wall and Gaius’ bed is lengthwise against it. He’s sitting up in bed but reclined against a stack of thick pillows with a heavy blanket over his lap.

Gwen hadn’t exaggerated when she stated that the last seventeen years would be noticeable. Gaius looks positively ancient. What little hair he has left is wispy and white, he looks frail beneath the bedcover and his pale skin is wrinkled and translucent with age. Oddly, his eyebrows are now thicker and wirier, and they arch up over wide, rheumy eyes when Arthur comes into view.

“Arthur!” Gaius exclaims and starts to struggle to sit up. “Arthur, my dear boy.”

Arthur hurries over to him, glad to see him but also to stop him from trying to get out of his bed. He leans down and gets caught in a surprisingly fierce embrace. “Hello, Gaius.” His words are muffled by both a heavy robe and several very enthusiastic pats on his back. “It’s good to see you.”

“Oh, it’s so good to see you, Arthur. You cannot know how pleased I am that it’s you.”

And that’s an unusual enough statement that Arthur extracts himself from Gaius’ embrace and goes to a knee next to the bed. He keeps both of Gaius’ hands tight in his.

Gwen, standing just behind Arthur, speaks before Arthur can. “Forgive me for saying this, Gaius, but you don’t seem nearly as surprised to see Arthur as… well, any of the rest of us were.” –

Gaius chuckles. Despite a film of age, his eyes can still sparkle mischievously. “Well, I’m surprised, certainly. But it’s also not entirely unexpected.”

“Excuse me,” Cullen interrupts before Arthur can ask what he means. “I’ve got chairs. He,” –he nods down at Gaius fondly– “doesn’t need to be up and about right now.”

“Oh, I’m perfectly fine, Cullen,” Gaius protests while Cullen helps carry over chairs for both Arthur and Gwen and gets them positioned next to the bed. “Stop fussing and come here a moment.” Gaius waves the young man over. “Cullen, this is Arthur Pendragon.”

Cullen’s eyes go wide. “You mean _King_ Arthur?” He looks at Arthur dubiously, not that Arthur can blame him for that. “But I thought… I mean…” he mutters uncertainly.

“Yes, _that_ King Arthur.” Gaius inclines his head. “And, you’ll recall the druid’s magic…” he lets that trail of significantly.

Eyes going so wide that the white shows all around his moss-green irises, Cullen says, “Oh!” and then his already pale, freckled skin goes even paler. He holds out a hand, and Arthur can see that it’s shaking. “It’s an honor to meet you, King Arthur.”

Arthur grips his arm and gives a firm shake. “It’s good to meet you, Cullen. But please, it’s just Arthur.” He smiles disarmingly. “And, I can only thank you for taking such good care of Gaius. I’m sure he must run you ragged, but you’ll not find a better tutor.”

Cullen looks as if he doesn’t know whether to laugh or drop to the ground and kneel at Arthur’s feet at the praise.

Fortunately, Gaius speaks before Cullen becomes too overwhelmed. “Why don’t you go and find Markus. The both of you should be at your studies.”

That seems to pull Cullen together and he excuses himself. “Gaius is right. I suspect Markus is still down on the practice field, so I’d best fetch him.” He nods to Gwen in deference. “If you’ll excuse me, your Highness?” He turns to Arthur and adds awkwardly, “Your Highness. I uh, mean, Arthur.”

Gwen inclines her head. “We’ll be fine here, Cullen. You go on.”

Gaius waits until he’s out of the room, watching after him fondly, and then turns back to Arthur. “Cullen and Markus are my apprentices. When they’re trained up, they’ll be skilled healers and sorcerers both.” He lifts a shaky hand and points to the closed door. “Cullen’s a local lad, born in the lower town. Mother’s a weaver and father’s a stableman. Quite a gifted young man. Absolute knack for the healer’s arts. Brilliant at conjuring and even advanced spellwork as well. Now, Markus, he’s the son of a noble, and also in training to be a knight.” He smiles wide and toothy. “He’ll be the first of his ilk.”

It’s fascinating how so much has changed since Arthur’s been gone. He’d like to find out more, but the matter of Merlin is pressing. There’s something telling him that time is a factor, like he can feel it at the back of his mind. Still, he can’t help saying, “Sorcerer-knight? That’s…” He doesn’t know what it is. Unprecedented. Astounding. He shakes his head. “So much has changed. And for the better, I’d say.” He gives a quick, approving smile. “But, Gaius, I need to know why I’m here. Why am I back?”

“And why do you seem to know about what’s going on here?” Gwen adds.

At that, Gaius’ expression goes a bit sheepish. “Well, you see, I’ve been in contact with the druid people, Gwen.” He takes one of Arthur’s hands again. “There was a spell. You see, there’s a disturbance in the very fabric of magic. The druids are quite concerned about it, and they think it has to do with Merl–”

“Merlin? So you know where he is?” Arthur interrupts.

Gaius shakes his head sadly. “No, not exactly. That’s why you’re here, Arthur. You’re meant to find him.”

“I don’t understand?” He sits forward anxiously.

Gwen places a hand on Arthur’s arm. He’s not sure how to read it. Tempering him? Cautioning him against pushing too hard? Or perhaps just being supportive? He tries to ignore the little voice in his head that says ‘Leon would understand it’, because it’s not fair to either of them. Gwen asks, “What do the druids have to do with this?”

Gaius settles back into his cushions, looking enigmatic. “It’s a bit of a long story, if you’ll indulge me.”

“Of course,” Arthur replies. What does Gaius mean that he’s meant to find Merlin?

“Well, much as I hate to admit it, Gwen, I _have_ been in touch with Merlin over these past years.” He ducks his chin, like a chastened little boy.

“But why did you never say anything?” Gwen asks, and Arthur looks over to see her fighting a frown. She’s tugging at her lip with her teeth, a definite sign that she’s upset (at least he can still read that much). “And why didn’t Merlin come home?”

“That, I cannot answer, Guinevere. I have my ideas, but all that Merlin would ever tell me is that he could not return. It’s a question I pressed many times, but he deflected it each one of those.” He shakes his head, lips pressing thin. “I tried to change his mind, but he would not be moved. Still, we’ve kept in contact over the years. He shared enough with me that I knew vaguely of his movements, and though you may not know it, he has assisted Camelot several times over the years.”

To Arthur’s surprise Gwen’s finger’s clench on his arm and she bobs her head eagerly. “I knew it! There have been too many strange happenings in battles, that I knew magic must be involved.” She deflates an instant later with a sigh. “I just wish he’d have come forward. If he didn’t feel he could return home, then at least he could’ve spoken to us. We could’ve thanked him. We’ve missed him so.”

Gaius echoes her sigh. “I tried to make him see that, Gwen. He’s always been remarkably stubborn, as you’ll recall.”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur interrupts. “How is it you were speaking with him? Did you see him?”

“At first, I did; now and then.” He looks at Gwen apologetically. “He came to collect a few of his belongings, and returned twice more after that, and I would meet him outside of the keep in the woods. But once he started travelling far beyond the city, we had to communicate using magic. There’s a scrying spell we’ve used. It’s a magic that allows people to use a pool or bowl of still water to speak across vast distances.”

He must sense that Arthur, at least, is not familiar with such a thing, because looks thoughtful a moment before going on. “Imagine as if you were looking into a mirror, but the reflection looking back at you was of someone else. Of course, scrying isn’t always as clear as that, and sometimes, if the magic is not cooperative, or either one of those doing the scrying is distracted, it doesn’t always work. It’s also how I keep in contact with the druids...”

Gaius trails off as he starts to cough; a dry, wheezing sort of rattle that sounds like it comes from deep within his lungs.

Arthur is dismayed at how weak it sounds.

Gwen stands. “I’ll fetch you some water.”

Gaius tries to wave the offer away. “I’m fine, Gwen,” he says, but he’s still gasping.

“Let her help, Gaius,” Arthur urges, smiling tightly, like it’s an indulgence. “Cullen said that you had a trying morning with some spell. I expect he’d not be too happy with us if he came back to find you worse off.”

“Here you are,” Gwen hands over a cup and then helps Gaius to drink a little from it. Arthur can tell from their easy familiarity, that this isn’t the first time Gwen has tended him. When she takes the cup away, Gaius sits back for a few moments, quietly catching his breath.

Gwen returns to her chair, though she sets the vessel close by on a nightstand. She looks at Arthur and gives him a small smile. “Are you all right to continue?” she asks when Gaius’ finally seems to be breathing normally, the only hint of any issues a lingering little whistle on each exhale.

“Of course, of course,” he insists. “Besides, Arthur doesn’t have time to dilly-dally.”

Arthur blinks. “I don’t?” Well that’s alarming.

“You’re here because of the druids, Arthur. It was their magic, the magic of the very earth, that brought you back.” He holds up a hand, stalling any questions Arthur might have. “As I mentioned, there’s something going on with the very source or fabric of magic itself. Spells are becoming unpredictable, sometimes not working at all, or sometimes they’re too powerful. It’s as if there’s some element of chaos that’s been introduced into the essence of the world.”

Gwen says it before Arthur can, “I don’t understand?”

Gaius twists his mouth up to one side, like he’s puzzling over an answer. Arthur can’t blame him for finding it difficult. He’s probably used to explaining these things to people who at least have a feel for what he’s talking about. Neither Gwen nor Arthur have any frame of reference. Well, at least as far as he knows. Perhaps Gwen’s learned about magic over the years?

“Imagine magic as the energy and strength of your body,” Gaius begins. “It’s something you draw on when you need it, and you can work to make it stronger and more powerful. But you can deplete it if you use it too hard, though it can be replenished as well. Magic is like an energy that’s inside you, but it also comes from everything around you. The elements and nature itself feeds that energy. And now, it’s as if someone has poisoned that energy. Or, perhaps made it sick. The druids first noticed it some time ago, but it’s been growing steadily worse and its effects are becoming more widespread and unpredictable.”

He gestures with a splay of his hand towards the room. “Even my apprentices are noticing the effects. Though their magic is more internal in nature, and relies less on the elements and nature, as with druid magic.”

“Is that what Cullen meant?” Gwen asks. “Earlier he’d said that you had trouble with a spell this morning.”

Gaius frowns. “Well, yes and no. While this disturbance certainly affected how strong my own spell work was this morning, my scrying spell failed because the person I was trying to reach didn’t respond. As he’s not responded for too many months now.”

Arthur doesn’t need to ask who Gaius was trying to reach. “Merlin,” he states.

Gaius nods. “It’s been over six months since I’ve heard from him.”

“Do you think he’s being affected by whatever this magical disturbance is?” Gwen asks.

“No,” Gaius shakes his head sadly. “The druids think he’s the _cause_ of it.”

“What?” Arthur asks sharply. “What do you mean?”

Fixing Arthur with one of his furrowed-brow expressions that Arthur knows means he’s being thick, Gaius explains, “Arthur, I told you once that Merlin is the greatest sorcerer ever to walk the earth. That was no exaggeration. His power is so grand, and has only grown these many years, that whatever’s happening with him is resonating in the very earth. That is _why_ the druids came together to cast a spell that called upon the magic of nature itself to bring forth something to assist them in solving this problem. Though,” he snorts, “I don’t suspect they were quite expecting _you_.” He points a thick-knuckled finger toward Arthur.

Again, Arthur feels like he’s missing something very obvious. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Gaius.”

“There isn’t any specific spell for a situation like this. A great many druids, from many different clans and families came together and essentially cast out their magic to the universe in a plea for help.” He waggles the pointing finger. “You, my boy, are a result of that plea. And I believe that’s because Merlin is the source of this disturbance, and it’s up to you to find him and… fix him.” He shrugs wearily at the end.

“Fix him? How?”

Gaius sighs and his headshake is regretful. “That, my boy, I do not know. The last time I spoke with Merlin, he talked of visiting the grave of the great dragon. He hasn’t been in contact with me since, and I do not know what it is that’s wrong with him, or what could be causing any of this.”

“The grave of the great dragon?” Arthur echoes and Gaius nods. Arthur slumps back into his chair with a sigh. “Well, I suppose that’s a place to start.”

“Why were you trying to contact him this morning, Gaius?” Gwen asks. Which is a good question.

“Well, I’d heard from the druids that they were going to attempt this magic, and two nights ago, I felt it echo into being.” He presses a hand to his chest. “In fact, I suspect most anyone with a touch of magic felt _something_ when it happened. It rang out to the very stars. And, I guess I’d hoped that whatever their magic did, it might encourage Merlin to speak to me. Alas, it did not.” He gives a tight smile. “But it brought _you_ to us, Arthur, and I’m sure you’ll be able to find him and make things right.

“And that’s why you need to be in a hurry, Arthur.” Gaius takes hold of Arthur’s hand again, clutching it tight in both of his. His grip is surprisingly firm, and there’s something in his expression that’s quite sad. “The magic that allows you here isn’t permanent, I’m afraid.”

“Oh!” Gwen’s hand flies to her mouth and she turns to look at Arthur, her eyes wide and alarmed.

“It’s all right, Gwen,” Arthur says quickly, to comfort her. “I rather suspected that might be the case.” He gestures loosely at himself with his free hand. “I don’t quite feel like I belong. I… I’m not sure how to explain it but, I think I’ve known that since I woke up.” He looks back at Gaius, placing his palm over the knot of their hands. “How long do I have?”

“Your time here is likely tied to the moon,” Gaius explains. “The druids cast their spell on the night of a new moon, and I suspect you’ll return to… well, wherever it is you were once the new moon comes ‘round again.”

Right. So that means a little less than a month to find Merlin and figure out what’s wrong with him. “Uh, so I don’t suppose you know where this dragon’s grave is?” he asks, looking between Gwen and Gaius. “I mean, all those years ago when I slew the beast, Merlin said it flew away, but I have no idea where it actually died.”

Gaius’ mouth goes thin, lips pressing tight together, and he can’t seem to meet Arthur’s eyes.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, not quite sure he if he should be wary or suspicious.

“Well, you see, Arthur, you didn’t exactly slay the dragon.”

A thrum of alarm shoots through Arthur and he flicks his eyes toward Gwen helplessly. Is Gaius getting a bit addle-minded in his age? He doesn’t know how to convey that question to her without asking it outright. “Um, Gaius, I was there. I stabbed the beast with a spear. Merlin said that…” he trails off as Gaius starts to slowly shake his head. “There’s something I don’t know, isn’t there?”

Of course. Merlin _told_ him that he dealt the dragon a killing blow. But, he’d been unconscious. Leaving Merlin to face it alone.

“There’s something that Merlin likely never got the chance to tell you, Arthur. Merlin is the son of a Dragonlord. Making him a Dragonlord, actually. You never killed the dragon. Merlin merely sent it away from Camelot.”

“What?” It bursts out of Arthur’s mouth in spite of himself. “Merlin is a Dragonlord? Then why in the world did he and I chase over half the countryside in order to find Balinor if Merlin was capable of…” It comes to him in a flash: Merlin’s reaction to Balinor’s death, his assurance when riding out with Arthur that they’d survive the night, and a number of conversations he and Merlin shared over the years of the missing parent in their lives. “Oh god,” he mutters helplessly. “Balinor was Merlin’s _father_, wasn’t he?” It makes so much sense now, looking back on it.

Gaius nods sadly. “Yes. I’m afraid so. And, though you’ll not be pleased to hear this, Arthur, the dragon also became a friend to Merlin over time. They respected each other greatly.”

A memory reveals itself to Arthur then; it’s vague, and grey-edged, like a half-remembered dream. Something that happened when he was clinging to the last vestiges of life: the rhythmic sound of flapping, like heavy pennants snapping in the wind, and the biting rush of cold air across his face, and movement faster than any mount could ever manage. “I think… I remember the dragon.” He frowns, chasing after the elusive memory. “Did Merlin… did we _fly_ on the dragon?”

Again, Gaius slowly bobs his head. “Merlin summoned the dragon to carry you both to Avalon. Unfortunately, he was too late.” He squeezes Arthur’s fingers.

Gwen places her hands over theirs as well, thumb stroking Arthur’s skin. “Oh, Arthur.”

“Don’t worry, Gwen. I’m okay.” Somehow, he manages to extricate one of his hands from theirs and he pats her hand. “What I need to focus on now is getting to Merlin. Gaius, do you know where the great dragon’s grave is located?”

Gaius nods. “I know the general area. Merlin spoke of it being to the west, on the northern shores of the Sea of Meredor. You must travel beyond the White Mountains, and through the Valley of the Fallen Kings and then I believe if you follow the coast, you’ll find the ridge where the great dragon came to rest. Merlin did speak of taking refuge in a village near there. Now that was some months ago, but they might have word of him. There’s one other thing you need to know, Arthur.”

And just from his tone, Arthur knows he’s not going to like this. He steels himself, asking through gritted teeth, “What is it?”

“There’s another dragon. She’s called Aithusa, and one of the reasons Merlin went where he did is because he was looking for her.”

“How could there be another dragon? My father said that the great dragon was the last.”

Arthur knows before Gaius even gets a chance to say anything. His contrite expression is just _that_ telling. “It has something to do with Merlin, doesn’t it?” Arthur asks wearily.

Gaius nods, only slightly chagrinned. “Do you recall the dragon’s egg?”

Arthur’s hands slip free of both Gwen and Gaius’ hold and he sets his elbows on his knees and puts his face into his palms. “Merlin rescued it somehow, didn’t he?” he asks into the cups of his hands.

“He did,” Gaius confirms. “And he hatched it. You’ve seen her before, Arthur.”

It takes all of Arthur’s will not to drive his fingernails into his scalp, though he does press his fingertips hard against his temples. “That pale creature of Morgana’s.” It’s not a question. He’d always wondered where Morgana had come across a dragon-creature, though he’d never thought the sickly looking beast was actually a _real_, full dragon, like the one that had been beneath Camelot. He’d thought it more like one of the wyverns he’d encountered in the Castle of the Fisher King.

And oh… well, that certainly explained why the wyverns stopped bothering them.

He lifts his head, resting his chin in one hand and running the other over the back of his neck, to press into the muscles already knotting at the top of his spine. “Anything else I should know?”

Gaius looks thoughtful and makes a considering noise. “Hmmmm, not that I can think of at the moment, Arthur.”

“Okay, well that’s good.” Arthur sits up straighter. “So, travel west beyond the Valley of the Fallen Kings to the Sea of Meredor. Find Merlin and fix him.” He slaps his hands down on his knees.

“Precisely,” Gaius agrees with a pleased smile.

“And bring him back here, if at all possible,” Gwen adds. “We miss him, and he needs to come home.”

“Right,” Arthur nods. “I’ll see what I can do.” He’s only being a little bit facetious. He really does want to bring Merlin back to Camelot. But mostly he wants to find out what’s so wrong with him that it’s affecting the very fabric of magic itself and is enough to have brought Arthur back from the realm beyond.

He’s trying to think of any other questions he has for Gaius – who is starting to look rather tired, so Arthur’s figuring they should consider ending their visit – when Cullen returns to the room with Leon and another young man in tow. While Cullen has an appearance that seems to fit his vocation – slender with angled features, messy auburn hair and an overall ascetic look – the man who must be Markus looks every bit the knight: broad-shouldered and fit, dark good looks and two-days beard growth on a firm chin. It’s strange to think that he’s also sorcerer.

“Arthur,” Leon crosses the room. “I believe you’ve met Cullen.” Arthur nods at Cullen, who can’t seem to quite meet his eye. “This is Gaius’ other apprentice, and also one of my best young knights-in-training, Markus.”

Arthur stands to shake the man’s hand. He’s a bit bolder than Cullen, perhaps, but he’s still got that same wide-eyed look of awe about his face. What had Gaius said? That the druids’ spell could be felt by all those with magic. He supposes he can’t blame either of Gaius’ apprentices for their reactions to him. Still, Arthur tries to put the man at ease. “Markus, it’s good to meet you. I must say that I’m intrigued by the idea of a knight who also practices sorcery. Have you adapted any of your combat techniques to accommodate those abilities?”

Markus nods. “A bit,” he states and then looks to Leon for guidance.

“He’s just starting to explore that,” Leon explains. “As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s something we’re still figuring out.” His grin is wry and Arthur chuckles. “But you’d be hard pressed to find anyone amongst Markus’ age group who’s better with a sword.” Leon’s grin softens, quirking to the side slightly. “Reminds me quite a bit of Gwaine, to be honest.”

Arthur’s brows go up. “That’s high praise from Leon,” he acknowledges. “Gwaine was quite skilled. Perhaps if I’ve the time, we could manage a friendly match?”

“I, that is… I’d be honored… truly, it would be an absolute honor.” Where Cullen had gone pale, Markus is bright red; his entire face and even his neck and ears are flushed.

“Markus,” Gaius calls out, “stop your fawning now, young man. You and Cullen have work waiting.”

Both men respond in practiced unison, “Yes, Gaius.”

“And you, Gaius,” Gwen says as soon as Gaius is done chastising his apprentices, “need to get your rest.” She talks over his attempted protest. “Gaius I’m sorry but it’s been a long morning already, and I’ll not hear another word.” She looks over to Markus and Cullen. “Make sure he doesn’t overdo it, will you?” There are dutiful nods and Gwen smiles, pleased. “We’ll leave you to your rest.”

“Don’t worry, Gaius,” Arthur adds. “I’ll be sure to come and see you again before I set out to find Merlin.”

While Gwen’s motherly admonishment simply made Gaius purse his mouth into a pout, he reacts to Arthur’s words much more animatedly. “When will you leave?”

“You’re leaving?” Leon asks before Arthur can respond.

“It’s a bit of a long story,” Gwen answers, stepping away from Gaius’ bed with a last squeeze of his hand. She goes to Leon’s side and takes hold of his arm. “We’ll explain it all shortly, dear.”

Leon nods, apparently satisfied with that.

“Ah, tomorrow,” Arthur tells Gaius. “I think it’s best, considering my um, limited time here, to head out as soon as possible.”

“I think so as well,” Gaius agrees. He settles back against his cushions once more, looking pleased.

“We’ll leave you to your rest,” Arthur tells him, like Gwen, reaching out to take Gaius’ hand and press it between his own. “Thank you, Gaius. It’s been so very good to see you.”

“It’s been wonderful to see you as well, my boy,” Gaius agrees, smiling widely, his eyes looking suspiciously bright.

They leave Gaius to his fussing apprentices – who, for all Gaius’ bluster – clearly care for him a great deal.


	6. Chapter 6

After their audience with Gaius, Arthur follows Gwen and Leon back to the dining room, where Percival’s still sitting at the table. “Sorry,” he says, holding up a parchment. “Sir Carrek’s come down with a fever, so the roster for a caravan escort needed to be revised.”

Arthur waves that away. “Business of the kingdom needs to go on. Although I’m glad you’re still here so we can fill you both in on what we learned from Gaius. “

“You’ve got your answers then?” Percival asks, sitting forward eagerly.

Gwen’s mouth twists up to one side. “Somewhat.”

She returns to her seat, but Arthur stays standing, feeling the need to pace while he and Gwen trade off sharing what they’ve learned. Between them they fill Leon and Percival in on Gaius’ explanation and Arthur’s purpose in being resurrected.

“So, tomorrow then?” Leon asks, when they’ve concluded.

“So soon,” Gwen says softly and not a little bit wistful.

Arthur nods, though it’s with reluctance, dropping into the chair beside Leon. “Much as I hate to say it, I think it’s probably best that I set off as soon as possible. I’ve been brought back for a purpose, and a fairly urgent one at that.” He blows out a breath that’s just a bit frustrated. “I’ve no idea how to find Merlin, and I’m guessing this magic that’s brought me back isn’t going to be forgiving should I not find Merlin before it’s run its course.”

Gwen sighs. “If Gaius is right that your time is limited, it does make sense. Just, please make sure you come back to us before that time is up.” She chews at her lip and softly adds, “I don’t think I could fathom not being able to say goodbye a second time.”

Arthur can only nod again. He doesn’t want to think much about that yet: what it will mean to leave again to return to wherever he’d been ‘beyond the veil’. Apparently waiting for… well, he’s not clear on what he’s waiting for; but, he’s no more looking forward to –essentially – dying again, than anyone around the table likely wants to see him go. “I will Gwen. And if all goes as planned, I’ll bring Merlin with me. At least that’s one wrong I can right.”

“Have you a plan?” Percival asks, before the heaviness that they’re all likely feeling can settle.

“I’ll start by riding for Meredor. If that’s where the grave of the great dragon lies, it’s as good a starting point as any. Though, I do wish these druids who saw fit to summon me back could’ve provided a bit more guidance.” He adds the latter thought ruefully.

“Have you considered speaking to them first?” That from Leon.

“I have,” Arthur admits, shrugging. It’s probably unfair of him, but Arthur’s still not entirely comfortable with druids. His experiences in the past have been rather split. Not to mention, Mordred had been a druid at one point. “I think I’d prefer to hold off on that. If magic and the very earth itself are as out of sorts to them as Gaius seems to suggest, I’m guessing they’ll not be much help. Though,” he amends, “if I find myself running out of time, I may rethink that.”

Leon glances over at Gwen, brief and furtive. Arthur understands why a moment later when he very offhandedly remarks, “You know, if you had some help along the way, it might make the journey go a bit easier or faster.”

Gwen is not so easily fooled. She lifts a brow at Leon who has the good grace to duck his chin. “You might as well just come out and ask it,” she says, though she’s smiling fondly at him.

Leon’s responding grin is so full of love and adoration and just…‘knowing’ that Arthur has to look away a moment. Sounding only a slight culpable, Leon does ask, “Would you object if Percival and I went along with Arthur? At least for a few days. Perhaps as far as the borders?”

“Of course not,” she replies immediately. “In fact, I’d expect it.”

Arthur gets the feeling that this little give and take between the two of them is a fairly common thing.

“I can’t ask that,” Arthur says before they can make any further plans. “I’ll not take you away from your family and responsibilities. This task was set before me, and I don’t even know how long it may take–”

Gwen interrupts before he can protest further. “Arthur, please. You know you’d do exactly the same were the situation any different.”

Which is a point he can’t argue.

“And Meredor is only two days ride,” Leon adds. “At least let us keep you company that long.”

“You know we’ll just follow after if you don’t agree.” Percival adds his comment with a wry smirk.

Another truth. Arthur blows out a sigh, meant to sound grudging, but he’s rather secretly relieved he won’t have to give up the company of his friends right away. “All right, then. I suppose I can put up with the two of you for a few days longer.”

Leon chuckles. “Glad you can see reason.”

“And if that’s the case, Leon,” Gwen goes on, “and you’re going to be away a few days, you’d best let your son know.” And there’s something in that tone that causes Leon to flinch just slightly.

“He’s going to be mad, isn’t he?” It doesn’t come out as a question.

Gwen shrugs. “I think the children understand that what’s going on right now is a very unusual circumstance.” She turns to Arthur. “I explained it as best I could this morning. But…” she lets that trail off for a moment, turning back to her husband. “You did promise Elyan that the next time you left the castle on an overnight patrol he could ride with you.”

Leon runs a hand through his hair, which just has the effect of unsettling his tousled curls even further. “I did, didn’t I? Well, hopefully he’ll understand this isn’t a routine patrol.”

“I’m sure if you explain it, he’ll understand.” Gwen makes a little shooing motion. “Go on. The sooner you speak to him, the better.”

Leon stands. “Care to come along?” he says to Arthur. “Might make him a little more amenable to forgiveness if you’re with me.”

“Of course. Is he at practice still?” Arthur asks. Hadn’t Markus just returned from the training fields? He’d thought Elyan might be of the right age for training with the likes of Markus.

For some reason, Leon ducks his head at that question while Gwen gives a very unladylike snort. “Well, he should’ve been done earlier, with the squires and other knights-in-training, but he likes to stay after to watch the Knights train.” Leon explains.

“He’s _supposed_ to be at lessons with Lord Gregory,” Gwen says, with a frustration that has the sound of familiarity to it. This is clearly another common…discussion between them.

Across the table Percival has his head down, but Arthur can see the laugh he’s trying to smother.

“Elyan is already a skilled strategist,” Leon protests. “Surely one afternoon away from Gregory’s dusty books and dry lectures won’t do any harm.”

“If it were only one afternoon–” Gwen begins, exasperated, but then cuts herself short. “Well, when Lord Gregory shows up to inform us, yet again, that our son has failed to show up for lessons, you can be the one to tell him that you allowed it.”

Leon laughs even as he feigns a wince. “Fine, fine. I’ll deal with Gregory again.” He stands and claps Arthur on the shoulder. “C’mon. Perhaps you and I and Percival can show the latest recruits what proper Knights of Camelot can do.”

Arthur laughs heartily. “Perhaps we will. Though, maybe I could test young Elyan’s mettle? You said he’s quite the swordsman. I’d like to see him in action.”

Puffing with filial pride, Leon nods. “He is. Definitely takes after his namesake in that regard.”

Percival rises as well but gestures toward the other doorway. “I’ve got to go over these patrol changes with Sir Dariel. I’ll meet you down on the field when I’m done.”

Leon nods again, dismissing Percival to the task and then waves for Arthur to follow him.

“Have fun, you two!” Gwen calls after them.

They make their way through familiar halls that Arthur feels like he only walked a few days before. The route to the practice field is unchanged, and one that he walked almost daily since his boyhood. Although, as with the night before, he notices minor things here and there that are different along the way – improvements from what he can see – nothing strikes him as too incongruous. It could easily be one of those same mornings that he walked side-by-side with Leon through the castle after a council meeting with his father.

But Arthur knows that no matter how familiar things seem and how he wishes it were different – that it really was seventeen years ago – nothing will ever feel quite right. It sobers him, although not too much because it does feel good just to get out onto the field with one of his oldest friends. He knows that tomorrow will bring its own worries, so he’s not going to feel guilty for setting those aside for this brief time.

When they step outside to the verges of the expansive training area (made larger since Arthur’s day) Leon nudges him with an elbow and points across the yard. “There’s Elyan.”

Arthur looks to where he’s pointing and sees the young man who’d so bravely faced him down the night before. Elyan is still wearing his own chain and mail, and though his sword sits in the scabbard at his side, Elyan’s hand rests on the hilt. He’s watching the training wide-eyed, gaze going from one group of sparring warriors to the next.

He and Leon stay on the sidelines, close to the castle walls, observing unnoticed for a time as three-score knights in their chain and armor and tabards run through sword-drills and sparring matches and other training routines that haven’t changed much at all since Arthur was the one to put them into practice all those years ago. The men under Leon’s command are younger than Arthur expected (though he’d taken over the troops when he was barely green himself, stepping into his fathers’ place at the lead of quite a few men who’d been in the Knighthood since before Arthur’s birth), but they’re enthusiastic and there’s no small bit of skill out there amongst those engaged in the mock-combat.

He tells Leon so.

That pride is back in Leon’s eye as he looks over his troops. “They’ve all been selected for their skill, not just based on their lineage. There are as many farmer’s and merchant’s sons out there as there are nobles. That was one change Gwen and I both agreed upon from the start.”

“I imagine there was a fair bit of pushback?” Arthur remembers the grumbling and protests he’d gotten not long after he’d brought back a handful of newly made knights who aided him in recovering his father and the kingdom. Apparently, their skills had been appreciated well-enough when Camelot was besieged, but once things returned to relative normalcy, too many people seemed just as eager to forget their aid and had seen only their ‘low’ origins.

“Not as much as you’d expect. Oh, there were certainly a few hold-outs amongst the lords and nobles, but none of the knights had any qualms with it. Hell, the best of us were four men without an ounce of noble blood.”

Arthur side-eyes him. “Except Gwaine.”

Leon smirks. “Well, he liked to pretend he’d never been within a mile of anyone noble. And he never thought _you_ knew about that.”

“I didn’t for quite some time, truth be told. But Merlin, for all his ability to keep his damn magic a secret all those years, sometimes couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He let it slip once when I’d been grousing about my Uncle Agravaine suggesting that we might want to consider thinning the ranks of the knighthood a bit.”

“You should’ve realized your uncle was up to no-good just from that bit of terrible advice,” Leon chides, albeit playfully.

Arthur snorts noisily but doesn’t disagree. “I really should have. As you said, they were four of our best. I hope you’ve got a few of their ilk out there.” He gives nod towards the practice field.

Leon shrugs. “I think there are a few. Plus, some in the lower ranks who’ve not made knight yet. Young Markus is definitely one of them.”

“Elyan as well, I imagine.”

There’s no verbal reply to that, but Leon shoulders Arthur and grunts agreeably.

“C’mon, Arthur,” Leon says eventually, when things start to wind down from the more structured activities to much more casual bouts. “Let’s give them a bit of a show, shall we?”

As much as he wants to agree immediately, Arthur hesitates. “We’ve got no armor, no shields. Perhaps we should gear ourselves up first?”

Leon shrugs, a mad sort of grin curling into his cheeks. “We’ve sparred plenty of times without the chain. Remember that time when Elyan nearly took you down with an axe?”

Arthur does, quite fondly. “I remember that my axe was faulty, and Elyan got lucky,” he recalls with chagrin. “And I also recall that Gwaine always managed to lose his shirt whenever we went without armor.”

That gets Leon laughing. “He always claimed he fought better in the altogether! Besides, it’ll do this lot some good to see what two old warriors can do in just their shirt-sleeves!” He jerks his chin to the side. “There are shields on the rack, and we’ve both got swords. What more do we need?”

Grinning a bit madly himself, Arthur steps onto the greensward and then makes his way to the weapon racks and takes up a shield. It’s a little lighter than he’s used to, and seems better constructed too, but it’s still a shield and feels almost as comfortable in his hand as the sword he draws. He takes up a stance a few yards away, trying not to pay attention as around him the practicing knights start to take notice.

Leon claims his own shield and then moves to stand opposite Arthur. “When you’re ready,” he offers, inclining his head.

“Right,” Arthur agrees with a nod of his own.

He raises both sword and shield to ready positions and starts to circle. Leon immediately goes on the defensive. Arthur gives a quick slash at Leon’s shield that’s neatly deflected. Leon echoes the same move and Arthur catches it against his own blade rather than his shield, recognizing a feint that Leon would’ve redirected into an upstroke had he brought the shield ‘round.

Leon dances back, grinning even as his blade is parried away. “Remember that one, do you?”

Arthur laughs. “It was one of Gwaine’s favorite moves, after Lancelot defeated him with it. What about this one?” he asks, and immediately spins to his right, pushing out high with his shield and shoving it into Leon’s shoulder, even as he hooks his sword in a low arc below the steel.

Countering, though not without a sharp grunt of an exhale, Leon manages to turn away the sword strike by rolling his body with the motion of Arthur’s shield and blocking low in the opposite direction.

Panting slightly, Leon laughs when they both step back a pace. “Another Gwaine maneuver,” he says with fondness. “And one that took me a damn hen’s age to figure out how to counter.”

“Was kind of hoping you’d forgotten,” Arthur admits.

They exchange another quick flurry of blows. For Arthur it feels a bit like he’s taking up his sword again after coming back from an injury or illness. The muscle memory is there, and he knows the moves by rote, but there’s something just a bit disjointed about it all. He’s lucky that it seems to be coming back quickly though, because Leon’s hardly lost a step.

Though, that partial step starts to catch Leon up after a while, and their relatively equal balance of offense to defense starts to shift. He manages a fairly tricky maneuver – one that Lancelot had shared and Elyan had excelled at – that catches Leon’s shield behind the edge of his own and with a sharp tug, he’s able to yank Leon’s shield from his hand.

Leon, sweating and blowing out heavy breathes, just shakes his head. “I should’ve seen that one coming,” he admits. Despite the loss of his shield, he still gets in a few quick slashes that send Arthur scrambling to parry. It’s only a few more minutes, though, before Arthur’s able to get inside Leon’s guard and knock the sword from his hand.

Disarmed and shaking out his sword arm – Arthur’d caught him on the wrist with the heavy pommel of his own blade – Leon is still grinning rather oddly at Arthur, who is waiting for him to yield.

“You’re done, Leon.” Arthur tells him, panting almost as heavily.

“Am I?” Leon asks, and the mad grin is back.

Before Arthur can respond to that cryptic statement, a flash of movement in his periphery catches his eye. Instinct has Arthur bringing his shield around. Just in time too, because Percival is there, lashing out at Arthur with a star-headed mace.

“Dammit!” Arthur curses, as the weapon impacts against the shield hard enough to reverberate up the length of his arm; though it’s at himself for letting Percival sneak up on him, not at Percival joining the fray.

“Two on one, eh?” Arthur asks, stepping hastily out of Percival’s very long reach.

“Figured it’d be like old times,” Percival rejoins with a laugh. He circles Arthur slowly, and Arthur knows Percival’s letting him get his breath back. Eying his deasil path warily, Arthur realizes that all of the other knights have given off their own training and are watching their combat, having formed a rough arena of bodies around them.

Though Arthur knows he shouldn’t care about his reputation at this point, he still can’t help the cocky bravado in his reply, “If you remember those old times like I do, you may recall who usually walked away the victor.”

Percival hefts his large shoulders. “Aye, I recall, but we’ve also learned a trick or two while you were gone.”

‘Gone’, like Arthur was away on a journey and not dead. For some reason the notion makes him laugh even harder. “All right, c’mon then, Percival. Let’s see if those arms still swing a mace hard enough to knock a man from his boots.” Which isn’t hyperbole; it’d happened once during a patrol when they were set-upon by bandits.

A booming laugh is the only response and then Percival charges him.

He’d once told Merlin that although Percival was probably the strongest man he knew, his sheer size hindered his speed. Apparently, Percival’s been told that as well, and put some effort into improving. Though his breathing has evened out, Arthur finds himself gasping out puffs of air as he puts all his focus into dodging Percival’s surprisingly quick swings. He’s lashing out with strikes that Arthur is hard-pressed to stay ahead of, often barely getting his shield up or his sword leveled in time to meet them.

“That’s more than two tricks,” Arthur quips, as he’s forced to drop to a knee to duck under the arc of the mace.

Behind him he hears Leon chuckling. “You always said that Percival needed to improve his speed.”

“Oh, and now you choose to listen!”

It’s only through sheer luck that Arthur succeeds in disarming Percival. He lifts his shield for a clumsy block and by chance the point of Percival’s mace catches right in the rivet-point where the shield’s straps are connected and gets lodged there. Arthur’s got more leverage, since he’s already drawing the shield back and Percival’s too extended to draw his arm back quickly, so he manages to use Percival’s own momentum to draw the weapon from his hand.

He’s forced to throw the shield to the ground then, as the mace head doesn’t dislodge even after he gives the whole thing a vigorous shake, but Percival’s disarmed at least. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s not still dangerous. Which Arthur remembers perhaps a split second too late, as he looks over to see Leon sitting cross-legged on the ground just where’d he’d left him. He feels arms come around him, pinning his own arms tight against his body, and Percival hauls him bodily from the ground.

“Put me down, dammit!” Arthur grunts out, though it’s half laughter. His feet are dangling half a yard above the grass, and he’s forced to drop his sword or risk slicing his own leg as Percival continues to squeeze him tighter.

“Now?” Leon says, suddenly on his feet an advancing on Arthur. “When we’ve finally got the advantage?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. Well, it’s more like rolling the whole of his head against Percival’s broad chest. “Oh, come on.”

Sensing his only chance, Arthur lets himself go limp and he hears Percival swear at the way Arthur’s now dead weight forces him to change his stance. While Percival’s still trying to right himself Leon rushes him, arms out to tackle them both.

Arthur manages to get his legs up just in time. He catches Leon in the gut with his boots, doubling him over, but the impact throws Percival wholly off balance.

All three go tumbling in a heap to the ground.

As Arthur lies there, arms and legs akimbo and tangled up with Percival and Leon, fighting to get his breath back once again he hears the knights around them burst into riotous chatter and applause. Many call out their praise and admiration, especially to Leon, but there are compliments all around.

“Father!”

Arthur rolls his head to the side on the grass – too damn tired to lift it off the ground at the moment – to see Elyan rushing over. He’s grinning ear-to-ear.

“Father that was incredible!” He rocks to a stop just a few inches from Leon’s head (luckily, else he’d probably have tripped over their ungainly pile). “You were so fast! I’ve never seen you fight like that! And Sir Percival, you just picked him up like he was a log!”

“Hey now,” Arthur grunts out, following it with a teasing smile when Elyan looks down at him.

“Sir, uh…King… um, Arthur,” Elyan starts to stutter.

“Just Arthur,” Arthur manages to lift an arm to wave off any honorifics. He’s content as just Arthur now.

Elyan glances to his father for just a moment, looking a bit stricken, but then he blurts out, “You’re the best fighter I’ve ever seen!”

Leon groans and throws a forearm dramatically over his forehead. “Outdone in the eyes of my son. Will I never live down the shame?”

Elyan frowns. He must know his father’s kidding, but he looks like he doesn’t quite know how to take it.

Arthur flings out his own arm to smack Leon in the gut. “Ignore your father,” Arthur instructs. “Just this once, at least. Trust me, if I had the same number of years on me as your father, and fought as well as he did just now, I’d likely not be walking off this field.”

Elyan seems to think on that a moment.

“It’s all right, Elyan,” Percival says as he begins to lever himself up off the ground. “Arthur was always the best of us. There’s no shame in losing to him, no matter what your father says.” Having regained his feet, he kicks lightly at Leon’s ribs.

“Hey, now! For that you can help an old man up.” Leon lifts an arm, and Percival grabs it, curving a big hand around his forearm. He hauls Leon to his feet in a swift move.

“And what about me?” Arthur asks.

Percival looks at Leon, lifting a brow. “I think we helped him enough letting him win, don’t you?”

Leon grins down at Arthur and nods firmly. “You’ve the right of it, Sir Percival.”

Poor Elyan looks torn between extending his own hand down to Arthur or taking his father’s lead and leaving him to fend for himself.

Arthur takes the choice away from him. Though he’ll probably regret it come morning, he puts both his hands flat on the grass above his head, rolls his knees tight up to his chest and then kicks out hard, pushing his body upright in a quick flip-up. He lands the move – barely –upright and on both feet. But it’s enough to impress Elyan.

“Whoa!” he exults. “Can you teach me to do that?”

Leon just shakes his head. “I’m going to come out onto the field tomorrow and all of my knights-in-training are going to be trying that maneuver you know.”

Arthur just shrugs. “I’d always said that we should start employing a tumblers troupe to help get some of the knights into fighting trim.”

Percival shakes his head, like he’s parroting Leon. “Your luck, Gwaine would’ve taken up as a jester and driven the rest of us mad with it.”

Leon quirks an eyebrow. “How would that have been different from Gwaine otherwise?”

Arthur barks out a guffaw. The banter is so familiar and so welcome, and it warms Arthur’s heart to see that Leon and Percival can share the joy of those memories instead of only sorrow. He hopes that continues well after he’s finished his task, and they can look back upon this day with the same fondness.

But those are headier thoughts he’s in no hurry to examine. Turning his attention back to Elyan instead, Arthur looks down at him with a smile (he’s clearly going to have Leon’s height, as his forehead’s almost to Arthur’s shoulder). “So, young man. How’d you like to cross swords?”

“Me?” Elyan seems genuinely taken aback.

“Well, your father and Sir Percival were a good warm-up, but I’d welcome a real challenge. Your father tells me you’re the one to go to for that.”

Elyan looks up at Leon, who nods his encouragement. Seeing it, he bobs his head eagerly. “I’d be honored.”

“Perhaps I’ll just fetch you some chain,” Leon offers Arthur. “So, you’ll be more evenly matched.”

Arthur agrees with a quick nod, knowing it’s to stop Elyan from shedding his own armor and possibly risking injury. He and Leon and Percival were – still are evidently - well-practiced and familiar with each other and there was very little risk of them doing one another serious harm. No matter Elyan’s skill level, Arthur doesn’t want to take _any_ chances with Gwen’s son.

It’s only a matter of a few minutes to get Arthur a padded gambeson and chain hauberk and slipping into them feels like putting on a second skin. They’re not quite the right fit – his own armor had been customized for him down to the last link – but he almost feels freer with the weight of it on his shoulders.

Once again, the knights spread out to give them space. Leon and Percival step back as well, and Arthur throws a nod in their directions and then turns to face Elyan.

“Ready?” Arthur asks.

Elyan’s nod is firm and he holds his chin high.

Like he did with Leon, Arthur settles into a ready position. They’ve both only got swords – no shields this time – and Arthur holds his across his body at close guard. He wants Elyan to make the first move, wants to see if the boy (well, young man really, he’s only a about a year or so younger than Arthur was the first time he led a patrol) has the temerity to strike first.

He does.

And he’s fast! It’s no wonder that Leon says Elyan puts him in mind of his namesake. Arthur parries the first lunge, catching it against his and then letting it shed the length of the blade. He moves to counter once his own weapon is free, but Elyan performs a quick fade, stepping back and out of reach.

Arthur angles his weapon into a boar’s tooth guard and then moves at a diagonal. He twists his wrist to slash out at Elyan’s flank, and though it’s a fast move Elyan deflects it neatly.

“Pass back and pivot, Elyan!” Leon shouts. “He’ll follow that counter with a sweep at your knees!”

As Arthur was just about to do that very thing, he holds back the move while Elyan steps away.

“Leon,” Arthur calls out, mock-aggrieved. “You’re not supposed to be helping, here.”

Elyan is advancing warily again while Leon voices a rejoinder to that, “It’s a teaching moment, Arthur. We can all benefit from that.”

Arthur blows out a scoff but isn’t able to respond further as Elyan dances forward in a cockstep and cuts out his blade toward Arthur’s unguarded left side. Again, Arthur manages to parry, and he immediately counters with an advance of his own.

They cross swords, and Arthur’s got the advantage of size and strength here. Still, Elyan doesn’t back down; he pushes forward, scraping his blade along Arthur’s until they’re locked at the crossguards. Elyan has his teeth bared and after a few moments of trying to use his body-weight to drive Arthur back (which won’t work since Arthur’s got at least four stone on him), he changes tactics and attempts to throw Arthur off-balance by wrenching his sword to the side.

It’s a move that Arthur’s used himself many times, so it’s instinct to simply move with him. And apparently Leon’s trained him in that very tactic (likely remembering Arthur’s use of it) because Elyan spins away from him in a quick pivot.

“Nicely done!” Arthur can’t help but exclaim.

The praise seems to throw Elyan off more than any of Arthur’s attacks. He ducks his chin and makes a clumsy lunge.

“C’mon now,” Arthur chides, albeit gently, and turns it away easily. Instead of taking advantage, he retreats a pace, lowers his blade to a guard position again and instructs, “Half of combat is keeping your head about you. Come along, let’s try that again.”

Encouraged, Elyan feints and then immediately fades back, so that Arthur is forced to over-balance to follow after. Granted, the boy telegraphed it and Arthur could’ve avoided the mis-step, but he wants to see if Elyan knows how to capitalize.

Which he does, cutting out at him with a strong horizontal slash. Arthur deflects it, but he’s pleased that it takes him a bit of effort to do so.

“Watch for the counter! He’ll come in high on your left.” This time it’s Percival shouting out instructions.

Arthur grumbles and shouts back a curt, “Percival! Not you too!” He tries the move anyway, swinging his blade in downward arc towards Elyan’s shoulder.

Elyan grins though, and he scrambles back just in time to avoid the blow.

They exchange a few more moves, and Arthur lets Elyan stay on offense for a bit. Then to test his mettle further, he presses his attack, fast and relentless. To Arthur it feels a bit like giving a demonstration on some of the sword fighting basics, but it’s good to see that Elyan is well-versed in a variety of guard stances and that even as his attacks seem well considered and not rushed, his defense is equally thoughtful.

He’s _very_ good for his age and given a few more years training he’ll be able to give any knight a run for his money. Arthur almost wishes he could find a way to return in the future, to challenge him again and see the progress for himself.

But for now, Arthur’s tiring and he knows that Elyan already had his training sessions earlier; he doesn’t want the boy to overdo it. It’s time to put an end to their friendly contest.

When they’re both at guard, circling again, he lowers his blade, letting the point touch the ground. “Shall we call it a draw?”

Elyan looks confused a moment, like he expects this is some kind of trickery on Arthur’s part.

“No tricks,” Arthur tells him. “I think that’s enough for the day, don’t you?” He inclines his head regally.

“Yeah,” Elyan agrees after a moment, mirroring the bow. He lowers his sword and then sheathes it when Arthur does the same.

“That was well-fought, Elyan,” Arthur tells him sincerely, stepping forward with a hand extended.

Eagerly, Elyan claps his hand in Arthur’s and squeezes tight around Arthur’s forearm. “Thank you, Arthur. That was… it was brilliant.”

Once again, the knights in audience offer their applause and words of praise. Many of them come over to congratulate Elyan on their bout. They compliment Arthur as well, and a number of them express interest in testing their own mettle against the legend that is King Arthur (someone actually says those words to him, and Arthur fights very hard not to roll his eyes… the young knight had seemed _so_ sincere). Knowing his plans to leave in the morning though, he makes no promises.

Leon waits until the throng clears away and then walks over and puts a hand on each of their shoulders. His grin is stretched wide across his face. “Didn’t I tell you?” he says, giving Arthur a shake. “Isn’t he as good as I said?”

His joy and pride are infectious, and Arthur can only agree. “Absolutely, Leon. He’s going to be the best swordsman Camelot’s ever seen if he keeps up at this rate.”

“Oh now, don’t let him hear you say that,” Percival says with a laugh as he joins them. “Poor lad is going to let it go to his head.” He flops a hand onto Elyan’s head, tousling the dark-blond curls.

“Oh, I will not, Uncle Percival.” Elyan replies somewhat irritably pushing Percival’s hand away, but it’s easy to see he’s preening under the praise.

“_Sir_ Percival,” Leon corrects. “When we’re on the practice field.”

Elyan drops his chin. “Right, sorry. Sir Percival.”

Percival just waves that away. Around them the knights are dispersing. “I suppose we ought to let young Elyan get back to his lessons.”

“His actual lessons,” Leon adds with a very firm tone.

Elyan ducks his chin again, sheepish. “Sorry, father. It’s just…”

Before he can scramble for an excuse, Leon gives his shoulder a squeeze. “It’s forgiven, but just this once, you hear?” Elyan nods. “Because if your mother has to answer to Lord Gregory’s complaints any further, she’ll have _both_ of our hides.” Apparently remembering the reason they sought his son out in the first place, Leon explains about their planned journey. “One more thing, Elyan. I also wanted to tell you that Sir Percival and I will be leaving Camelot tomorrow.”

Elyan perks up, opening his mouth to speak. Arthur just knows he’s going to ask to be allowed to come.

Leon goes on before he can voice the words. “You can’t come along this time, Elyan, I’m sorry. I know I promised you’d be able to join the next over-night patrol, and you _will_, but this is a different task entirely–”

“But, father!” Elyan interrupts.

Leon shakes his head. “I am sorry, Elyan. But Percival and I must accompany Arthur on a very important journey and we may be gone for several days. It’s as your mother explained this morning.” He gestures sort of awkwardly toward Arthur, who can only smile grimly. “I wouldn’t have gone back on my word, but this is a very special situation.”

Arthur’s beginning to regret that he agreed to have Leon and Percival join him. He doesn’t want to cause any strife in Leon’s family.

But Elyan’s face loses its petulance and he considers for a moment. “I understand. But the next patrol, as you promised.”

Leon claps his son on the shoulder again and gives him a rough shake. “You’ve my word on that, young man. As witnessed by Arthur Pendragon himself.” He throws Arthur a quick wink. “Besides, you know I’ll need you to look after your mum and your brother and sister while I’m gone, right?”

Elyan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t shrug off Leon’s hand. “I know. I will, father.”

“Good. Now get to the library for your studies!” He propels Elyan forward with a gentle shove.

They watch as he jogs off towards the castle.

“Ahhh, to be young and that full of energy,” Percival says with a soft laugh.

“I’m glad he’s not too upset,” Arthur adds.

Leon shrugs a shoulder, though he looks equally relieved. “I am as well, but it’s also important that he learns that just because he’s prince, it doesn’t mean he’ll get everything handed to him.”

Arthur grins even as he lifts a brow. “Now where would you get the idea that being a prince can go to someone’s head?”

Looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Leon just shrugs again and replies, “No idea where I’d have gotten an idea like that.”

Percival throws an arm over each of their shoulders and tugs them in even as he starts back towards the castle, practically towing them along. “I’m getting the impression that it’s a good thing I didn’t know a certain prince in his youth?”

Letting himself be hauled after, Arthur hurries to keep step with them both – damn their long legs. “I’ll have you know, Percival, that I comported myself with the utmost dignity and never once let my royal status go to my head.”

Leon coughs out a throaty sort of garbled cough that sounds suspiciously like it’s calling Arthur a liar.

Ignoring that, Arthur instead asks, “Where are we heading?” Because he’s being herded upstairs and along hallways. If they’ve not changed the location, the throne room is the likeliest destination.

“The Queen hosts open court and general petitions a few hours every other afternoon. I thought you might like to see her in action.” Leon’s explanation is full of that same quiet but heartfelt pride as when he speaks of his children. He is a man utterly besotted with his family.

And he obviously knows Arthur well, because it’s exactly the kind of thing he’d like to witness before he journeys from Camelot in the morning. “I’d like that, Leon.”

“The upper gallery?” Percival suggests when they near the hall.

“I think so,” Leon agrees. “Wouldn’t do to distract Gwen too much.” The look – a sort of shared smirk -that Leon and Percival exchange tells Arthur there’s a story there. He’ll have to ferret it out of them later.


	7. Chapter 7

The first thing that Arthur notices when he looks down over the balcony is the massive round table still occupying the same space it had in his day. The top of it is a bit more scuffed, perhaps, but the Pendragon crest at the center is as clear as the day it was painted, and the same number of identical chairs still ring it. It’s a good feeling to see something he took so much pride in still being used almost two decades later.

He shifts his attention to Gwen, who’s seated on the throne looking regal - and lovely – as ever. Standing before her are two men, peasants by their dress and each flanked by a handful of others stood a pace or two back; and from the way they’re facing each other, rather than their queen, it’s clear this is some kind of quarrel.

“He’s been after that parcel goin’ on four years now, yer highness,” one is saying.

Immediately the other responds, “I’ve not been _after_ it, because it’s my land. You’ve ignored it for years until now of a sudden you’ve a need to pasture your sheep there.”

Ah, a land dispute. Arthur’d always dreaded those. Trying to be fair and just too often ended up with either (or both, in some cases) party cursing the Pendragon name as he was escorted out of the throne room.

Gwen’s expression is staid, and she gives each man equal attention. Finally, after the arguing starts to escalate and both men begin shouting over each other to be heard, Gwen lifts a hand. The entire room falls slowly silent, the hush spreading like a ripple through the audience until the two men finally become aware – trailing off in the middle of angry words and blinking owlishly – that they’re the only noise amongst the stillness and they both go rather suddenly and sheepishly quiet.

Arthur feels his own breath catch just a little bit as well.

“Willard, I’ve heard your petition, and Donal, your rebuttal. Willard, have you any use for this parcel of land at the moment? I’ve heard you say that Donal hasn’t had need of it until he was looking for fresh graze for his sheep, but you’ve made no mention of your own needs.”

The man called Willard starts to speak, “Uh, well, it’s like this, yer Highness…” then stutters to a stop. After a long moment he shakes his head. “Well, I ain’t got use fer it right now, yer Highness.”

Even from this distance Arthur can see one of Gwen’s eyebrows lift. Having been on the receiving end of that expression a time or two, Arthur has to hold back a chuckle.

Close, into his ear, Percival whispers, “Don’t envy that Willard at the moment. He’s gonna come out on the losing end of this even as Gwen makes him think he’s won.”

Sure enough, by the time Gwen is dismissing both parties, Willard has agreed to allow Donal the use of the land, in perpetuity, for a nominal fee (two sheep, for meat or wool, each year) and Willard is strutting down the aisle like he came out the victor.

“That was well-played,” Arthur says, keeping his voice equally low. “I’d probably have chucked them both out and told them to work it out for themselves.” Which, isn’t precisely true, but might not have been quite as diplomatic about it as Gwen.

“She likes to keep the peace as much as possible,” Leon explains. “Though, you should hear her real opinions on some of these so-called urgent matters.”

Arthur can very easily imagine it. “Lets it all out when she’s away from the public eye, does she?”

Both Leon and Percival bob their heads in an exaggerated fashion. “Loudly,” Percival adds.

“With quite a bit of, uh, color,” Leon agrees, smiling ruefully.

Arthur can’t hold in the snicker.

For all their humor, it’s good to know that Gwen has such support. In his day, he’d tried to keep much of the business of ruling away from Gwen as possible. He’d never wanted to burden her with the cares and troubles of running the kingdom. Their early relationship had been too full of its own heartaches and stresses, that he’d not wanted their married life unduly plagued by it as well.

In retrospect, perhaps he should’ve shared more. Perhaps it would’ve helped prepare her for what she’s got to shoulder now. Though, watching her in action, how smoothly she’s fielding even the most ridiculous and trying of situations, he suspects this chain of thought is all hubris. Gwen is doing just fine on her own.

So maybe it wasn’t the worst thing that he’d wanted to spare his wife that side of things.

Plus, he’d had Merlin to vent his frustrations to.

It had been _easy_ to let Merlin take the brunt of it all; no matter what that ‘all’ encompassed. Whether that meant shouting at him, or throwing things, or just talking to him and asking for advice, Merlin had been there. The best part about him was the fact that he always seemed to know how best to respond and give Arthur back what he needed (whether he knew he needed it or not). Sometimes, despite the fact that it just frustrated Arthur more, Merlin would force him to question his own judgment, or see things from a different perspective. Other times, he’d just irritate Arthur in general, and it wouldn’t occur to him until after the fact that whatever Merlin’s annoying behavior, it succeeded in distracting him or pulling him out of his own head.

Even after he and Gwen had married, he’d still relied on Merlin just as much. It seems that Gwen’s got the same thing in Leon, and in Percival as well.

He’s pulled from his woolgathering as the next set of petitioners shuffle out, and a single man steps before the throne. He catches Arthur’s eye because of the silvery hair, long grey robe and the stout wooden staff he’s leaning heavily on. He’s no commoner, that’s for certain.

“Iseldir,” Gwen says, smiling genuinely. “This is a surprise. What is it that we may do for you this day?”

Iseldir? Arthur knows that name. Right… the druid that Gaius had mentioned.

“Your Highness, I have come before you on a matter of some urgency.” He waits for Gwen to invite him to continue with a nod of approbation.

“As you may be aware, perhaps your Gaius has spoken of it to you, there is an instability in the very fabric of magic. Two nights prior, my brethren and I did cast out our energies to universe, seeking resolution for this trouble. Our divination tells us that the response to this plea can be found here, in your fair city–”

Gwen holds up a hand, though her kind smile eases the interruption. “Please forgive me, Iseldir, but I think I may know why you’re here. Or, perhaps _who_ it is you’re here to see.”

“Who?” Iseldir repeats, though it doesn’t sound as if he’s asking the question, but instead wondering at her use of the word. “I beg pardon, my Lady, but it is not one of your citizenry we seek. Instead, we have tracked the focus of that magic here.”

“I understand,” Gwen says, patiently, “but I think you might be surprised at the results of your own magic.” She looks past Iseldir then, and up to the viewing platform, locking eyes with Arthur.

It doesn’t surprise him that Gwen knew he and the others were up there.

“Arthur, would you mind joining us?”

“I’ll be right down.”

As he makes his way down the little circular staircase – Leon and Percival on his heels – he can hear Gwen calling for open court to be dismissed for the day. When they reach the doors, they have to pause just inside for a few minutes to wait for the throng of petitioners to clear out.

Over the noise of people passing, he hears Iseldir say, “Arthur? Surely you do not speak of Arthur Pendragon, the Once and Future King?”

Gwen says something that’s lost beneath the clamor, given that she’s all the way at the other end of the hall, but it must’ve just been a confirmation because Iseldir goes on, “But, that’s impossible. Our magic should not have had the power to summon spirits from the beyond.”

The last of the guards passes, shepherding the stragglers of common folk and nobles alike, and Arthur can finally make his way toward the throne. Stepping past the round table, running his fingertips over the wood of one of the chairs as he passes by, Arthur is the one to reply, “Well, I’m not a spirit, so I’m not sure how the rules apply.”

Iseldir slowly pivots to face him, and Arthur realizes with a bit of a shock that he recognizes the man staring at him in open wonderment. Though older, he’s the very same druid that had given over the Cup of Life.

“You are here, Arthur Pendragon,” Iseldir says, rather dumbly Arthur thinks, considering the evidence in front of him.

“I am.”

Apparently realizing himself, Iseldir inclines his head with a bit of a discomfited purse to his lips. “Of course. But in flesh, and form; not just in spirit. I must admit, we did not expect,” –he waves a hand in a loose gesture towards Arthur– “well, this.”

Arthur shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “It was a bit of a shock to me as well, I’d have to agree. But I’ve spoken with Gaius and he explained the increasing troubles with magical stability, and about the spell you cast, and uh, he thinks that I’m the result.”

After staring at him for a long moment – one that’s starting to make Arthur uncomfortable – Iseldir begins to nod. “Yes, yes. It makes sense now. Though I fear I will never fail to underestimate the influence that Emrys’ heart has over all, else perhaps I’d have realized what form our magic would’ve taken.”

There’s something about his odd, enigmatic grin that Arthur feels like he should understand, but the meaning behind that, and the cryptic statement, eludes him.

“But here you are,” Iseldir gestures again, the slow splay of his hand taking in the whole of Arthur. “Arthur Pendragon, returned to life. The answer to our plea. And now the question remains; will you aid us in our quest to restore the balance to nature and to mend the very fabric of magic itself?”

It seems a bit silly that he must ask, since that’s Arthur’s whole purpose in being back from the dead, but he gets that Iseldir had probably not reckoned on actually having to ask the question. “I will,” Arthur nods. “Gaius tells me that I’m meant to find Merlin, and to…” he trails off a moment. He’s still not entirely clear what he’s supposed to do once he finds him. “Uh, fix him?”

That actually gets a soft huff of laughter from Iseldir. “You are, in essence, correct, Arthur Pendragon.”

Well that’s going to get tiring. “Just Arthur, please.”

Iseldir inclines his head again. “Arthur then. And the task before is as you say. You must find Emrys, and seek to understand what has happened to him. My people can feel his presence in the eddies and currents of natural energy that connect all that is living upon this world, but there is something… off about it.”

“Off how?”

Spreading his hands wide, Iseldir replies, “It is not something we can explain with any clarity to one who is not attuned to natural magic. I could liken it to tasting some familiar recipe that’s been altered in such a way that you cannot identify what is different, but know it is wrong.” He lets his hands fall but shrugs. “That is perhaps the closest explanation I can give, and even that is far too simplistic. I can only ask that you take my word that this is true.”

Arthur does, though it’s mainly because Gaius already told him that things are off-kilter with magic because of Merlin. “So, once I find him, how am I meant to fix him?”

“Ah, now that will depend on several things, Arthur. Not the least is the nature of what has happened to Emrys. There is something changed about him, and you must find a way to bring him back to himself.” Again, he gives that culpable heft of his shoulders. “I wish that I could give you more guidance on this, but we know so little of what troubles Emrys.”

There’s only one final question he can ask. “Can you help me find him?”

Iseldir shakes his head sadly. “I’m afraid there is little we can do. Since this disturbance began, and we first began to seek him out, Emrys has taken great pains to remain hidden to us. He may not even be aware of his actions, but our every attempt to find him and reach out to him is turned aside. The magic itself goes oft awry, and the earth will speak to no one about Emrys’ whereabouts.”

So, they’re unable to provide him with help on finding Merlin, figuring out what’s wrong with Merlin or fixing Merlin…

Biting back the genuine frustration that he thinks is quite justified considering the circumstances, Arthur just gives a curt nod. “Well, Gaius has an idea of where I can start, and I plan on leaving in the morning to begin my search.”

Iseldir’s whole frame droops and he lets out a heavy sigh through flaring nostrils. “I cannot say that I’m not relieved to hear that, Arthur. As we had not expected the plea for aid generated by our confluence of magic to have such a… literal and prosaic response, we are very obviously not prepared to offer any substantial assistance; though I wish it were not the case.”

“Just out of curiosity,” Leon asks – he and Percival are flanking Arthur on either side – “but, what did you expect the result of this magical plea to the universe to be?”

Iseldir considers that a moment. “Well, there were several theories as to what form it would take. Some thought a spell, perhaps provided in a tome or parchment. Other’s thought a relic of some kind. An object of power that could be used to locate Emrys, perhaps even contain him–”

“Contain him?” Arthur blurts out. He doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Not permanently, of course,” Iseldir hurries to explain, going so far as to step toward Arthur and pat consolingly at the air. “Just temporarily until we could understand and resolve whatever it is that’s troubling him.” He smiles again, wide and genuine, eyes narrowing almost closed behind wrinkling skin. “But clearly that was not what the universe intended. I have to say that, while unexpected, I am personally quite pleased to see how the powers beyond chose to answer our call.”

Arthur laughs softly. “As am I, I must admit. Although, Gaius also said that it’s very likely that my time here is limited. Perhaps tied to the lunar cycle for the duration of the spell?” He already knows the answer, can feel the truth of it, but he needs it confirmed.

Iseldir’s smile falters and he nods his head gravely. “I’m afraid that Gaius is correct on both counts. I am sorry, Arthur.”

“It’s all right.” And it is, really. Arthur’s already come to terms with the fact that his time is so limited. In some ways it’s a relief. Though, he’s still got almost all of that time left… perhaps as the moon cycles and he reaches the end, he’ll feel differently. “I just hope it’s enough time to find Merlin and figure out how to help him.”

“I am certain you will succeed Arthur Pendragon. There is a profound rationality to the whims of the universe and the powers beyond. It is no coincidence that _you_ were returned to solve the problem of Emrys. I expect that is Emrys’ own influence.”

Arthur frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand.”

“I suspect that, despite himself, Emrys’ own influence on our magic – well, all of magic itself – has brought about creating the one thing that could actually reach him. He has, in essence, unknowingly created his own… remedy.” Studying him again quietly, head tilting side-to-side, hawk like, Iseldir smiles wide again after a long moment. “Yes, I think that deep down Emrys _wants_ to return to himself.”

“Well, I certainly hope that’s the case,” Arthur agrees.

“To that end,” Iseldir continues, “while we have little in the way of assistance available, I can offer one small token.” He reaches into a small pouch attached to the braided cord belt tied around his waist and after a moment – “Here,” – extends a hand, holding out some smallish, round object.

Reaching out to take it, Arthur asks, “What’s this?” His fingers close around what feels like a smooth piece of wood or lightweight stone. He shifts his grip on it to hold it between two fingers so he can study it. About the size of a damson, it looks like some kind of large acorn – brindled brown and grey – though whether it’s naturally grown or carved from some woody material he can’t quite tell.

“It is a method for you to call upon us for aid, should the need arise. Though bear in mind that its effect is not immediate.”

“How does it work? Do I plant it?” He asks the latter mostly in jest.

“Yes, precisely.” Again, that wide grin, pleased at how quickly Arthur is catching on.

Arthur refrains from laughing only at the very last moment when he realizes that Iseldir _isn’t_ jesting. He manages to school his expression quickly, hoping – though doubting – that amusement giving way to feigned curiosity isn’t as obvious as it feels. “So, umm, just plant it in the earth then? Do I, uh, need to water it as well?”

Luckily Iseldir either doesn’t catch-on or doesn’t take offense, because he just nods. “Yes, simply place the seed in the earth, and ensure it is covered by earth as well. The addition of water isn’t required, though it can speed the process. Soon after, a plant will sprout. Pluck the leaves once they’ve unfurled and cast them into the wind. I, or one of my brethren, will then contact you through an envoy.”

Giving a slow nod, Arthur closes his fingers around the seed. “Right. Pluck the leaves and let the wind take them. Got it.” It all sounds a bit mad, but who is he to argue the properties of a magic seed with a Druid?

Iseldir just nods again and pats him on the shoulder. “Very well, Arthur Pendragon. With that, I wish you all the luck on your journey and with Emrys.”

“Thank you, Iseldir.”

“The thanks is mine, Arthur, truly.” He turns then and bows low and with a grace and agility that belies his age. “Your highness.”

“You’ll be leaving?” Gwen asks. She’s stepped down from the throne and is walking over to them. “You’d be welcome to join us for a meal. And I’m sure Gaius would like to see you.”

“I’m afraid I must return to my people. I must share what I’ve learned and must also offer my continued support. This trouble with magic has been especially difficult for some of us.” He hesitates a moment and then adds, “Though perhaps I shall take a moment with Gaius before I return. His insights into the well-being of Emrys have always proved useful. Perhaps he might yet divine a way in which we can be of aid to Arthur’s quest.”

Gwen inclines her head. “I understand. If you or your people should need anything from the crown, you know you have but to ask.”

“Of course, my lady.” He bows again, acknowledging all of them with the gesture. “Farewell, and may peace go with you all.”

Iseldir leaves with no further ceremony, and as the day’s business is at an end, Gwen proposes lunch and then a tour of the keep and grounds and lower town. Obviously, she can sense Arthur’s curiosity about all that’s changed since he’s been gone, and he can’t fault her wanting to show off a peaceful and prosperous Camelot. It goes unspoken that it will give the four of them the chance to spend more time together before he – and Leon and Percival – depart in the morning.

They begin in the castle, and there’s as much the same as there is that’s been improved upon. There isn’t a change that Arthur doesn’t approve of though. Gwen’s influence has softened the atmosphere of the castle somewhat – blades and shields don’t dominate the décor of every single room and passage – but it’s her pragmatic nature that shows through the most. Along with rearranging the quarters of the staff, she’s made logical decisions like turning storerooms that had gone empty as long as Arthur could remember into functional spaces; mostly housing, but a common room here and there as well.

The gardens that had gone sorely neglected during Uther’s time are lush and well-tended. In truth, Arthur’d spent so little time in them growing up, he’d almost forgotten they existed. Though as they’re wandering beneath ivy and rose twined trellises, he remembers that Morgana had been fond of them. She’d called them a ‘good place to escape’ when Arthur got on her nerves, since he was so unlikely to follow her out there. And, as Gwen was Morgana’s ladies’ maid for many years before her betrayal, he expects the place holds some pleasant memories for her.

Arthur’s surprised occasionally by running into several people he used to know. It’s a stark reminder that although it seems like everything should be different, for most people in Camelot, life just continued on after he was gone. And seventeen years isn’t a lifetime, after all. So, it really shouldn’t surprise him when he encounters familiar faces. The kitchens are still ruled-over by a ladle-wielding Audrey, her hair steely but her eye on her dumplings still just as keen. The man Arthur knew as the lead groom now oversees the royal stables with his two teenage sons apprenticing him. There are also quite a few knights- active and retired - living in the citadel that he’d trained and ridden into battle with. They’re especially pleased to see him and be given a few minutes of his time.

It’s the same in lower town. Many of the buildings he remembers are still standing, and shops and marketstalls he’d frequented are still managed by the same families. He steps into the Rising Sun and it’s like stepping into the past. It even smells the same! Evoric - still the proprietor – recognizes Arthur immediately and insists that they all share a pint in his honor.

There are changes though, and some of them make Arthur hold his breath a moment as he adjusts to news of death or tragedy. The bowyer’s shop who’d supplied the Knights with their bolts and arrows was lost in a fire, and his family gone from Camelot. A bakery that Arthur remembered fondly for its savory loaves is boarded-up, the baker some years dead, and the property under dispute.

If there’s one singular thing that Arthur takes away from his afternoon revisiting all the places he’d known in his life; despite the occasional loss or sorrow, most everything has changed for the better. The entire city is bustling and full of life and clean and simply flourishing.

Arthur thoroughly enjoys the day. It fills him with such a sense of rightness, knowing how Camelot has gone on without him. Though he doesn’t mention it to anyone – because it’s a rather maudlin sort of thought – the comfort he takes away from everything he sees will go a long way towards easing his acceptance that he’s only amongst the living for such a brief span.

It’s probably not supposed to be an easy thing to accept, but there was clearly a rightness to his death… if this is the result. Camelot deserves her peace.

That evening Arthur joins Gwen and her family for dinner. Someone had put forth the suggestion of a feast in Arthur’s honor, but he’s glad they decided on the more intimate meal in the small dining room off the royal quarters. They can celebrate when he returns, successful and with Merlin at his side.

He sits down at the table at Leon’s side, opposite Gwen and Percival, and then watches with amusement as Elyan, Ruthie and Thomas all argue over who gets to sit in the empty chair next to him.

“But you already got to fight with him,” Thomas is protesting, little arms crossed stubbornly over his chest as he glares at his elder brother.

“He’s right, Elyan,” Ruthie agrees. “You’ve already got a turn.”

Arthur hides a grin behind his knuckles at that. They’re fighting over him like he’s some amusement.

Elyan huffs irritably. “But I’m the oldest.” He’s clearly trying not to seem immature in front of Arthur, but it’s equally obvious that his siblings bring out the petulant boy that’s he’s not quite fully grown out of. He’s hovering right on that awkward cusp of manhood, and Arthur doesn’t envy Gwen or Leon the moods that come with that.

“Well you’ll get more time with him later,” Ruthie counters. “When Thomas and I are abed.”

“Yeah!” Thomas adds loudly, puffing up like sheer volume is going to win this for him.

Before it can escalate Arthur offers, “Why don’t I move over a seat, and then two of you can sit next to me during dinner.”

He shares a look with Elyan, glancing down briefly at the younger two meaningfully. He really hasn’t gotten much of a chance to interact with Gwen and Leon’s other children yet.

“Fine,” Elyan grumbles. “You and Ruthie can sit next to him.” He moves to the empty chair across the table, slumping into it, and when he looks up again it’s to see Gwen and Leon both staring at him. Arthur can’t quite interpret what their matching expressions mean, but Elyan flushes slightly under them and then sits up straighter in his seat.

Of course, Arthur starts to regret his suggestion about five minutes into the meal. Though Ruthie is much politer about, she and Thomas are apparently chock full of questions for Arthur.

“Is it true that you used to be married to my mum?” Ruthie asks softly after Arthur finishes explaining – in very carefully edited details – about his last few days after the battle (Thomas’ had quite bluntly asked, ‘What was it like to be killed?”)

Arthur takes a moment to manage a few bits of his roast, chewing and swallowing so quick he hardly tastes it, and then he nods down at her. “Yes, Ruthie, I was.”

“But you’re not now,” Thomas pipes up. “Cuz you died, right?” He is certainly a precocious boy.

Across the table Gwen cringes, but Arthur can’t blame the boy for his seeming obsession with Arthur’s death and odd resurrection. “That’s right.”

“Did you love our mum?” Ruthie stares up at him, wide-eyed.

Feeling a bit of a flush come over him, Arthur can only nod again. “Very much so. Your mother is a very kind and generous and intelligent and beautiful woman. And that’s why your father loves her too. And I’m sure lots of other people love her very much for those same reasons.”

“Like Uncle Percival, right?” Thomas says.

Arthur glances over to Percival who seems intently focused on reaching the bottom of his wine-cup. When he shifts his gaze to Gwen, she’s just smiling fondly at Thomas, and Leon seems nonplussed by that comment as well.

“Uh, right,” Arthur agrees, though he feels a bit like there’s something he’s missing here.

Luckily, Ruthie’s ready with another question. “Are you sad that she’s married to my father now?”

Which, as far as saves go, isn’t where Arthur would’ve liked this odd little conversation to go.

“Ruthie,” Leon chides gently. “You shouldn’t ask things like that.”

Cheeks pinking, Ruthie lowers her head and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

Arthur gives Leon a reassuring smile and then pats Ruthie on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Ruthie. I know this is quite strange for you. I don’t mind your questions, really.”

She looks up at him, shyly at first, but then her smile returns when she sees his. “Truly?”

“Truly. And, I’ll tell you this. While I’m a little sad because things are very different and that’s kind of scary, I’m very, very happy for your Mother and Father. They were, and are, two of my very best friends, and I would want nothing more than for them to be happy together.” He tugs gently at one of her loose curls. “And besides, how could I be sad about your mum and dad when it means that you and your brothers came about?”

Ruthie positively beams up at him. She’s got so much of Gwen in her eyes and smile that it takes Arthur’s breath away a moment.

There are more - seemingly endless - questions after that, but luckily none quite so personal or difficult to answer. Thomas seems more curious about all the battles he’s fought in than anything, and Elyan hangs on every word of those stories as well.

Ruthie is especially curious about what Arthur - and her parents and Percival - were like when they were all younger. It probably takes Arthur twice as long as it should to actually finish his meal, since he spends so much time talking to the children, but no one around him seems in any hurry. Though, eventually Gwen does insist that Ruthie and Thomas finish their dinner and head to their rooms. Apparently, they’ve baths before bed.

Elyan’s allowed to stay up with them a bit later, but he’s also ushered out before the evening gets too late – to his protest, though Gwen reminds him of his skipped lessons and that silences any arguments.

The adults remain around the table long after the remnants of their meal have been cleared away. The pitchers of wine on the table are refilled more than once. Conversation carries on perhaps later than it should considering their plans for an early start, but no one seems to want the evening to end. Eventually, though, Gwen catches Arthur stifling yet another yawn behind his hand and she tuts at him in a weirdly motherly way.

Arthur doesn’t put up much of a fight when she insists that they bring the night to a close.

Like the night prior, there’s an odd moment when the four of them are standing in the corridor outside his room. As if no one can stand making that first move away. So, Arthur pulls Percival into a hug and then as soon as he’s released, Leon grabs him roughly and gives him a quick, but fervent squeeze. Gwen’s embrace lingers, and she touches his cheek again before wishing him a good night. He goes to the door and steps inside, but when he turns to close it behind him, he notices that Percival seems to be following after Gwen and Leon instead of heading to his own room (he’d said it was just across the hall, didn’t he?). He can’t help but wonder if perhaps they want to have a word about him in private, and the thought rankles somewhat.

Of course, only a moment later he chides himself for his paranoia. They likely just need to discuss the plans for the kingdom over the next few days while Arthur ‘borrows’ two of Gwen’s most important protectors and advisors.

There’s a bath waiting in his room, and he’s pleased to see that Gwen arranged for more of his clothes to be brought in, along with a few packs for travel. He hastily packs up what little he has, so he won’t have to do it in the morning (perhaps quietly longing for the bygone days when Merlin did all his packing for him), and then soaks for a very long time, not leaving the tub until his fingers and toes are pruned and the water’s gone cool.

After the events of a very long day, and the lulling bath, sleep finds him quickly.


	8. Chapter 8

Dawn is still little more than a promise on the horizon, where the clouds are limned in rosy-gold and the indigo sky bleeds into paler hues, when Arthur steps out of the castle. He’s alone, though he’d shared a quick breakfast with Leon and Percival, so he knows they’ll arrive momentarily. Understandably, it’s not quite as easy for them to pick up and leave on a journey like this.

Arthur’s got… well, _nothing_ really; his sword, the clothes on his back (which he’s not sure if he should consider borrowed, as they once belonged to him) and nothing else that hasn’t been given to him. Percival and Leon both have responsibilities as members of the Court, and beyond that, Leon’s got his children to part from.

Pushing aside any guilt that thought brings – he knows Leon’s away from the castle often enough on his own duties, so this isn’t asking too much of him – Arthur meanders down the steps and into the courtyard.

There are four mounts waiting on the cobblestones. Three bear saddles – two bays and a handsome dapple grey - and a fourth red roan gelding is laden with extra gear. Their reins are held by two young and yawning grooms. Arthur nods to the boys, who burst to alertness when they realize who he is (gossip about Arthur’s return has spread far and wide through the city). He lets them chatter at him about the horses and waits for Leon and Percival to join him.

Between the enthusiastic back-and-forth of the grooms he learns that the two bays – called Bramble and Thistle - are the offspring of some breeding arrangement with Eseter, while the grey is a grandson of one of Arthur’s own stallions that had been retired to stud even before Arthur’d been crowned king. He’s called Crowfoot because three of his legs fade from the steely dappled hide down to snowy white socks, but the fourth is nearly black to the hoof.

Thankfully he doesn’t have to wait too long. Not that Arthur begrudges the grooms their interest, but he doesn’t really have any idea how to respond to the story that the roan’s sire was a random destrier carelessly left in the wrong paddock by a visiting knight; or that the dam’s owner was so put out that his prize mare ended up in foal to some ill-bred cob, in retaliation he called the gelding Bertie, after the guilty party; Sir Sigeberht. Arthur manages to give the anecdote a chuckle which seems to please them, at least.

The doors swing open and Arthur excuses himself as Gwen comes down the steps, arm-in-arm with Leon, and Percival follows just after them. Arthur waits until they join him and then steps closer to speak to Gwen. “Thank you for letting me borrow your husband for a few days,” he tells her with a soft laugh. “I’ll return him to you no worse-for-the-wear, you have my word on it.”

Gwen’s own giggle is youthful and light, reminding Arthur of the young serving girl he’d known all those years ago. “And I appreciate that. I’ll also take your word that _you’ll_ come back,” she insists, the humor in her eyes going serious in a blink. She puts a palm to his cheek. “I mean it, Arthur. You must promise me that you’ll give us a chance for a proper farewell.”

Arthur covers that hand for a moment, feeling only the slightest bit uncomfortable at this show of intimacy with Leon standing right beside them. Though if he’s bothered at all by it, it doesn’t show in his face; his expression is just as fond and tender as Gwen’s. ‘’I promise you that, Guinevere. And I’ll do my damndest to make sure that Merlin comes home with me as well.”

“That’s all I can ask,” Gwen says, giving his cheek a last pat. Arthur’s about to step away, when she stops him by throwing her arms around his shoulders. He catches her up in the embrace, looking over her shoulder at Leon whose mouth is lifting at the corners somewhat apologetically. As if he’s both amused at his wife’s emotions, but completely understanding of them as well. “Sorry,” Gwen says in his ear. “I just hate the idea of seeing you go.”

“It’s all right, Gwen,” Arthur says, giving her a brief but firm squeeze. “You’ll see me again, I promise.”

She’s sniffling when she pulls away, but Gwen’s cheeks are dry. “I’m holding you to that.”

Arthur gives a final nod and then moves toward the horses with Percival, giving Gwen and Leon time for their own farewell. He tries not to watch or listen in, but as he’s swinging into the saddle of the dappled gelding he sees the moment that their embrace ends with a sweet, lingering kiss. Arthur puts his heels to his mounts side probably a little harder than he means to, urging it forward a few strides.

It bothers him but not for the reasons he was expecting: because it _doesn’t_ bother him. He hadn’t been lying to Ruthie at dinner the night before. He is happy for them. He’s surprisingly at peace seeing Gwen and Leon together as man and wife, though he suspects it will always cause him that sharp little stab of regret. That easy acceptance though, is what has him at odds with himself. How can he be so… okay with it?

Arthur draws back on his reins, halting his mount as Percival comes up along the side of him. “You all right?” Percival asks quietly.

They both turn back, looking over their shoulders to see Gwen standing near Leon who is leaning down from his saddle and pressing his lips to her outstretched hand.

“Yeah,” Arthur says firmly, “I’m good.” Percival doesn’t look entirely convinced so he adds, “Really, I am. I’m happy to see them both… happy.” He shrugs. “I know it doesn’t make much sense, but they’re two of the people I care about most in this world, and I’m glad they’ve found each other.”

Percival nods. “It does make sense. It’s one of the things that kept me going, I’ll be honest. Seeing those two coming to accept their feelings for each other. I think I knew it before either of them were ready to admit it.” His grin is slightly covetous. “And I cannot tell you how many pints it took to finally convince Leon to confess it.” He’s laughing as Leon nears them.

“Confess what?” Leon asks as his mount sidles next to Percival’s, the pack horse trailing obediently behind.

Percival presses his lips together stubbornly, so Leon turns to look at him, but Arthur just shrugs and smirks.

“All right, come on you two,” Leon grumbles, but can’t hide his smile. He hands off the lead line of the extra mount to Percival. “For whatever it is you just said, you’ll take rear guard.” Turning to Arthur, he adds, “If you’ll lead us?”

Arthur taps his heels into his horse’s barrel – much more gently this time – signaling the animal forward. They wend their way through the gates of the Keep and then down the main road in the lower city at an easy walk, but once they’ve passed the city gates Arthur urges his horse into a steady, rolling canter.

There’s little chance for conversation as they ride through the morning and into early afternoon, leaving the populated countryside surrounding the castle behind for the wide, rolling hills and dense woodland. They break at midday for a brief meal and to water their mounts, but Arthur is anxious to get as much distance as he can before nightfall, so they don’t linger.

The fiery ball of the sun is half-hidden by the distant hills and the sky overhead is drawing forth a curtain of glittering blue-black before they finally break for the night. It comes as no surprise to Arthur how easy it is for them all to fall back into the familiar duties of setting up camp and starting a fire and tending the horses. Arthur is just finishing this latter task – it’s almost too dark to see the horse in front of him and he curries sweat and loose hair off the animal mostly by feel – when Percival calls out that he’s got their supper ready. Arthur gives the horse a final pat and then leaves him to his feedbag of grain.

“Here you are,” Percival greets him, handing over a bowl of something steaming with a thick slab of bread laid over it. “Luckily it came mostly from the kitchens and isn’t anything I had to throw together myself.”

Arthur remembers Percival’s attempts at cooking. He laughs as he takes his share, “Which is very good to hear.”

Leon joins them a few minutes later, laying down a last armful of firewood into a small stack at the edge of the cleared ground. He takes a seat on his bedroll that’s laid near the fire and accepts his own bowl from Percival.

They eat hurriedly, assuaging the hunger of a long day on horseback, and full mouths and chewing impede more than a small amount of chatter.

Wiping his bowl clean with a hunk of his bread Arthur laughs at a memory that comes to him. “Do you recall the time we taunted Merlin with taking the last bowl of stew. Not leaving him any. Too good not to go back for seconds, and poor Merlin stuck scrubbing the empty pot.”

Leon nods, chuckling. “Yes. Poor Merlin. It _was_ good stew though. He always had a fair hand at cooking.”

Laughing softly, Percival says, “He wasn’t too happy with any of us at that little jape. Though Merlin was always quick to forgive.”

“That he was,” Arthur agrees. “And hopefully still is.” He sighs, feeling suddenly somber. “I worry about whatever it is that might be troubling him so deeply that its affecting the very magic of the earth.”

Leon and Percival exchange a look.

“What?” Arthur asks.

“Well it’s clear, isn’t it?” Leon states. “It’s probably still about you. About his grief over losing you.”

Arthur frowns. “But it’s been seventeen years. Surely…” he trails off when Percival shakes his head.

He’s got a look like he’s dealing with someone who’s not noticing what’s right in front of him. “Arthur, you didn’t see him right after. He was a broken man. I… I don’t know if he’ll _ever_ get over it.” There’s something in his voice that tells Arthur he’s speaking from his own experiences.

Still, Arthur can’t fathom that it’s his… well, _death_, that could be causing this situation with the magic. Though, if that is the case, his being temporarily given a reprieve from death likely won’t help much. He voices this thought aloud. “If that’s truly what it is, I don’t know what I can do for him then. I mean, yes, I’m back now. But, it’s only for a short while, and once I’m gone again, what’s to stop him from slipping back into…” he gestures helplessly, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Again, Leon and Percival look at one another and their glance speaks volumes that Arthur can’t interpret.

“Arthur,” Leon begins this time, voice exceedingly patient. Arthur can tell this is the tone he takes when his children are being particularly unruly, but have not quite pushed past his limit yet. “Look, Merlin thought that he failed you. That he failed to defy a prophecy and that he was at fault for your… dying.” Even Leon hesitates over saying it. “Maybe if he knows that you forgive him?” he suggests.

“But, I don’t blame him in the first place,” Arthur says, starting to feel just a bit aggrieved.

“Yeah, but he blames himself,” Percival adds. “And he’s not going to forgive himself. You’ll have to do it for him.” Again, the words are spoken with a somber familiarity. “Trust me on that.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Arthur,” Leon tells him. “You know Merlin better than anyone.”

Arthur rubs at his chin. He doesn’t feel as confident as Leon sounds, but he hopes that seeing Merlin and understanding the root of the problem will help him to figure out what he’ll need to do.

He’s not in the mood to dwell on it. He turns to Percival, who looks to be doing a bit of woolgathering of his own, and asks, “So tell me, Percival. What was Leon like when Elyan was born?”

That draws Percival out of his ruminations and he lets out a laugh that’s so loud and merry Arthur almost startles. Arthur turns to Leon, who’s got his head ducked down. But even through the veil of dirty-blond curls, Arthur can see that his cheeks are flushed from more than fire light. “What am I missing?” he asks. “There’s a story here certainly.”

“Oh, there definitely is,” Percival confirms. “You see, our honorable Knight Consort was a right mess. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a man fall so spectacularly apart as he did when Gwen told him to fetch the midwife. We were in council, you see. Gwen, with her belly as round as the biggest pumpkin you can imagine–”

“Hey, now. That’s my wife and your queen!” Leon protests, but he’s grinning fondly.

Percival’s hands go up in a warding gesture. “And she was lovely! Beautiful, even. Especially when she couldn’t sit close enough to the round table to reach her parchment.” He moves the hands in front of him, miming a vastly pregnant stomach.

Arthur closes his eyes a moment – while Leon and Percival mock-tussle on the other side of the fire – imagining it. She’d have been radiant, he’s sure of that.

“Anyway,” Percival goes on, looking only a little disheveled from Leon’s flailing hands. “We’re in the middle of a full council session. What was it we were discussing?”

“Lending troops to Queen Annis,” Leon supplies. His hair is even more unruly than usual. “To deal with an increase in bandits on her western borders.”

“Right, right.” Percival nods. “So, Gwen’s just sitting quietly while Sir Jorren is giving a rundown of which men we can spare from which outposts, when Gwen holds up a hand to interrupt him.” He waves a hand to Leon, inviting him to continue.

He does. “Naturally, Jorren went quiet, and Gwen just looked over at me and said, ‘I’m sorry to disturb the meeting, but I’m afraid the baby is coming. Call for the midwife, would you?’ The way she said it, just as calm as you please. Took me good long moment to understand what she meant.”

“Tell Arthur what happened next,” Percival urges, grinning so wide it looks painful.

Leon buries his head in his hand and mutters something that Arthur can’t quite hear.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asks.

The words come out a bit louder, and though still muffled against his hands, Arthur can make them out: “I swooned.”

Arthur blinks, while Percival’s laughter booms out helplessly. “You swooned? You mean you…”

“Fell over like a blushing maiden!” Percival confirms.

“Oy, don’t let Gwen hear you talking like that,” Leon cautions. He lifts his head and his face is almost purpling it’s so flush. “All right, yes. I may have been a bit overcome–”

“Overcome?” Percival echoes, still chortling. “It took three of us to rouse you and by that time Gwen was already up in her chambers, settled in her bed with the midwife at her side.” His laughter subsides slightly. “Though, after that, you did well-enough.”

Leon rolls his eyes. “I paced a furrow into the stone outside the door, you mean. And probably tore half my own hair out.” He looks at Arthur sheepishly. “Gwen kicked me out of the room for a while. Said I was a distraction. Though, she let me come back in to hold her hand when the time came.” He shakes a hand out. “She nearly broke two of my fingers.”

“How did it all go?” It feels a bit selfish to be digging for this information, but Arthur can freely admit to himself that he’s jealous of the things he never got to experience. It’s not even that he misses it for himself – what he sees in his minds-eye _isn’t_ himself in Leon’s place – but just that he wasn’t there to celebrate these important milestones with his dearest friends.

“Surprisingly well,” Leon says, pride in his voice. “Both Gwen and little Elyan came through it quite well. He was strong. A fighter from the start.”

“Bit of a long ordeal, though,” Percival adds. “That first time, I think we’d all gone a bit mad with the waiting. Gaius ended up mixing up what he called a ‘calming tonic’ for a few of us.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Turns out it was just herbed-cider.”

“A few draughts did help to calm you down though,” Leon points out.

“That it did.”

“What of the other two?” Arthur asks. “Ruthie and Thomas?”

“Much easier than the first. With Ruthie, Gwen woke me in the middle of the night and by morning she had a babe in her arms. And actually, I was out on patrol when Thomas came, though I’d certainly not intended to be.” He shakes his head. “Gwen assured me it was safe to take some of the newly made knights out on an overnight survey of the eastern borders. I rode back into a Camelot in full celebration of the birth of their newest prince.” He leans over to nudge Percival. “I had a stand-in though.”

“I held her hand through that one,” Percival admits sheepishly. “She wouldn’t let me leave her side, though I’d offered to ride out and bring Leon back early. She knew he was coming fast though.”

Arthur can tell, from their words and the easy way they’re talking, that there’s a special bond there – with the three of them – Percival is as much family to Gwen and Leon as they are to each other. Again, he feels both happy for them and jealous of what they’ve shared and he’s no longer a part of. He shakes off the negative with a casual roll of his shoulders. 

“They’re amazing children, Leon.” Arthur says sincerely. “Camelot’s future is in the best of hands, I’d say.”

“Well, don’t let Elyan hear you say that,” Leon replies with a grin, though he’s fairly puffed up with filial pride. “He thinks he’s ready to ascend the throne already.”

The conversation continues well into the night. Arthur asks as many questions as he can think of, soaking up all that he’s missed over the years he’s been parted from them. Both Percival and Leon are eager to answer, filling in the details of each other’s stories, and sometimes speaking in language that seems to be their very own. But Arthur can tell that they want to include him, to make him part of what he’s missed.

He’s grateful for that, but at the same time, it’s bittersweet because it reminds him that Merlin should be here with them. Merlin should’ve been there to keep a pacing Leon company as he fretted over the arrival of his first child, and Merlin should’ve been there to hold Gwen’s other hand when Leon wasn’t able to return in time. All the stories of Gwen’s and Leon’s children feel incomplete without Merlin being part of them. Still, Arthur keeps on with the questions, asking them for himself and Merlin both.

It’s only when Percival starts nodding off and Leon can’t get through a tale about Ruthie’s first time on a horse without yawning every third or fourth word that Arthur finally urges everyone to get some sleep. He banks the fire and settles into his own bedroll, but despite a full day on horseback and the late night catching up with his friends, sleep doesn’t come easy.

He’s too preoccupied with thoughts of Merlin. Everything that Percival and Leon had said earlier has been ringing in his mind. What is it going to take for Arthur to ‘fix’ him? Will forgiveness be enough? What if he’s not up to the task? What would happen to magic, and more importantly, to Merlin if he fails?

Eventually, both the mental and physical exhaustion take their toll and Arthur falls into a fitful, restless slumber.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning, roused by a hand shaking him gently, Arthur wakes feeling as though he’s hardly slept. He peers up blearily at the person hovering over him.

“C’mon, Arthur.” It’s Leon, and he sounds far too chipper for having stayed up as late as he did. “Sun’s already up. We don’t want to lose any more of the day.”

Arthur grumbles, but forces himself to rise.

Leon is right. There’s another full day in the saddle waiting, and as they’ve got to cross the southernmost foothills of the White Mountains and then make it through the Valley of the Fallen Kings before nightfall, it promises to be a long and rough one. They share a hasty breakfast – just trail bread and dried venison – and Percival and Leon pack camp while Arthur readies the horses.

Arthur pushes them even harder than the day before. They pause only to water the mounts when they cross small streambeds, and they eat a cold midday meal in the saddle. Occasionally, when the terrain slows them to a walk, or forces them to lead their mounts, they manage snatches of conversation.

Luckily, they encounter no bandits or even other travelers as they cross the heavily wooded foothills of the White Mountains. Leon explains that this is due to the regular patrols that come out of Camelot. “Occasionally,” he goes on as they’re crossing what’s little more than a goat trail and riding single file at a careful walk, “we’ll see a rise in bandit activity. Once or twice a year some ruffian will think it’s an absolutely clever idea to band together with other groups of outlaws and thieves, and they’ll try to establish a foothold. It never takes long to root them out.”

“I’ve not been through the Valley of the Fallen Kings in some time,” Leon admits, his voice hushed, when they’re standing at the base of the pair of statues that guard its entrance.

Percival shakes his head. “Me either.” He speaks in an equally low tone.

“I’d have thought there’d be less superstition about this place, now that magic is more known?” Arthur wonders.

Leon raises a brow. “I’d never considered that. I don’t think it’s fear of magic that keeps people away. I think it’s just that this place never seems to bring about anything good.”

“We’ve had our fair share of troubles here, that’s for certain,” Percival adds.

Arthur nods ruefully at that. He’d lost Merlin here once, when a conveniently timed freak rock-fall had separated them, leaving Merlin on the wrong side with bandits. Of course, looking back, Arthur has to wonder how ‘freak’ that rock fall actually was. Which leads him to considering just how many collapsing roofs and random gouts of flame were likely natural occurrences; probably very few, he decides.

It’s rather surprising he never sussed out Merlin’s magic sooner, for as often as things like that happened to him.

He shakes off the reverie when Percival says his name. “What was that, Percival? Sorry, I was just thinking back about this place. Some of those troubles you mentioned.”

Percival gives a wan smirk and nods. “I was just saying that we’ll likely have to lead our mounts until we come out on the other side of the valley. It won’t be safe to ride through these ridges and narrow passes.”

Arthur nods. “You’re probably right.” He turns to look from Leon to Percival. “In fact, this might be an appropriate time for us to part ways. Otherwise you’ll just have to travel back this way tomorrow.”

Leon pushes past him, shouldering Arthur aside to make room for his horse. “Which is exactly what we’ll do.” His tone brooks no argument.

Sighing in exasperation, Arthur looks at Percival. He just lifts his chin towards Leon (who is already a dozen paces beyond the statues). “Sorry, but I’m with him. We’ll ride with you to Camelot’s borders, Arthur. If we had our preference, we’d stick with you until you found Merlin.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t want–” he starts to say, but Percival waves all that aside.

“We know, Arthur,” Percival says firmly. “And it may be best if it _is_ just you who finds Merlin. But if you change your mind before we part ways, you know we’ve got your back.”

Percival claps him on the arm, hard, and it rocks him slightly. Arthur is glad of the roughly affectionate gesture because it gives him a chance to swallow against the knot of emotions starting to clog his throat.

“C’mon,” Percival urges. “Let’s not let Leon get too far ahead. Goodness only knows what kind of trouble he’ll get up to in this place.” He takes one last look up at the moss-covered statues, gives an exaggerated shudder, and then continues down the narrow defile.

Arthur follows him, keeping a few yards distance from the heels Percival’s horse, but close enough that both Leon and Percival are in sight. He feels as if his breath doesn’t come easy and his heart thrums at an elevated pace the whole of the time it takes to pass through the high-walled crevices and twisting, rocky runnels of the Valley.

When they emerge into the trees, leaving the confining space of those narrow passages behind Arthur pauses a long moment to fill his lungs and wait for his pulse to steady once more.

Arthur, apparently, isn’t the only one feeling that apprehension.

‘’Safely through,” Leon says with a slightly wild laugh. “I think that’s a first!”

“Well, we’ve still got the rest of the valley to get through,” Percival’s rejoinder is made with a wry snort. “I don’t know that I’ll consider us safely through until we’re on the shores of the sea.”

“At least we can ride again, as well,” Leon adds. They’re still surrounded by forest, but the trees are less densely packed and there’s a slightly overgrown path that meanders in the direction they want to go.

They mount up and Arthur urges his horse to the front of the party. Leon turns in his saddle when Arthur passes him but doesn’t protest. “We’ll keep an easier pace, I think,” Arthur calls back over his shoulder. They’ve only a few hours more to get through the remainder of the Valley, and then they’ll come out of the trees just two leagues or so from the shore. Their journey – the part he’ll be traversing with Percival and Leon at least – is nearing its end and Arthur is suddenly loathe to lose their company.

He’d like to invite them along for the whole of it. Tracking down Merlin on his own may prove to be a challenge and having his dear friends along would relieve some of the burden, not to mention the boredom. But that’s pure selfishness on his part; he can’t justify keeping Camelot’s Knight Consort, and First Knight away from home any longer. This is _his_ task, what he was summoned for, and he knows it’s best that he complete it alone.

Still, he can keep them to a less harried pace; give them the chance to talk as they ride. He asks Leon and Percival both for more stories of the years he missed. They share eagerly and not just the happy memories. Leon recounts the first battle the Camelot endured after Gwen became queen. King Alined had apparently thought that Camelot would be weakened without her king and brought his army across the vast plains to declare war.

“We repelled them in little more than two days,” Percival tells him. “He certainly didn’t expect us to be ready for such an attack.”

“I took Alined’s head myself,” Leon declares with a vicious sort of pride.

Arthur cranes his neck to look back at Leon. He rarely recalls his friend being quite so bloodthirsty; Leon could always be counted on to keep a level head during battles.

Leon shrugs, but he’s grinning in satisfaction. “Alined had some rather unpleasant things to say about Gwen.”

Ah, that explains it. Arthur returns the grin. “Well done, then.”

Leon tells of a longer siege only a few years back. “King Lot managed to gather a sizable army. Mercenaries mostly, but enough of Cenred’s old force remained as well. He pressed into Camelot from the Northeast, having secured an arrangement with Bayard of Mercia to cross into his lands so that the attack would come from an unexpected quarter.”

Arthur lets out a derisive huff. “Why am I not surprised that Bayard didn’t continue to honor his agreements with Camelot?”

Percival makes a similar sound and explains, “Bayard was promised the Veil of Denaria and the lands north of the Mountains of Andor should Lot succeed.”

“Of course. Bayard was always looking to expand his lands southward.” Arthur remembers his own troubles with Mercia after his father’s death. Bayard had never been willing to risk war outright, but certainly didn’t steer away from opportunities when the occasion arose.

Percival and Leon go back and forth with the retelling of that battle. It’s alarming for Arthur to learn that when Gwen rode with the vanguard, she’d been some months pregnant with Thomas. He doesn’t think he could’ve stomached such a thing, and from the way Leon speaks of it – in low tones and bitten off words – it’s clear he felt the same.

“Our Queen is a stubborn woman, and as capable as any of us,” Percival supplies when both Leon and Arthur fall silent after that exchange. It’s a verbal knocking of their skulls together, telling them they’re both being a bit daft.

Leon laughs. “There is no disputing that. And not a day goes by that I’m not grateful for it.”

The unabashed love and adoration in Leon’s voice catches Arthur deep in his chest, but this time it’s not a painful sort of feeling, it’s one of happiness. That is what Gwen deserves. And Leon as well. He wants to tell Leon that, to make it clear to his friend how happy he is with the way things turned out for them. But it’s not the time.

Instead, he cajoles Percival into describing Leon and Gwen’s wedding. And that’s certainly a topic that keeps them both talking for quite some time.

The trio breaches the thinning boundaries of the forest, riding out into the brush-heavy verges of a vast, tumbling, rock-strewn plain, while the sun is still making its descent over the western horizon. In the distance is a glimmering ribbon of gold: the Sea of Meredor reflecting the setting sun.

Leon and Percival come abreast of Arthur where he’s reined his horse off the path and come to a halt.

“We made very good time today. We can probably make the shore by nightfall,” Leon says. Their horses haven’t been pressed too hard over the past few hours and could easily manage the leagues before they lose the light.

Arthur shrugs. They could also break here, set-up came while it’s still light and maybe even get in some hunting and have a relaxing evening around the fire. Arthur wants that, but for selfish reasons.

What the hell, he thinks. He deserves a bit of selfish.

“Let’s not push ourselves, or the horses,” he decides. “They’ll need to be to be well-rested and fresh before your return journey. We’ll make camp just over there.” He points to an outcropping of stone that will form a natural windbreak for their fire.

He gets no arguments. If Percival or Leon question his reasoning, especially considering the dramatic shift from his urgency of the morning, they don’t bring it up.

Like the night before, they fall easily into the routine of setting up their camp. Once again, Arthur tends the horses and then he and Leon head back towards the verges with crossbows, to see if they can scare up any game.

“Any luck?” Percival calls out a short time later when they’re trudging back through the twilit dusk.

“Pheasant!” Arthur replies, holding up the two birds that he and Leon managed to flush up from where they’d been roosting in some low trees.

“One each,” Leon adds. “Though Arthur’s bolt hit a little more squarely than mine. I only winged mine. Luckily that was enough to bring it down.” He shoulders Arthur companionably. “That’s what an extra seventeen years gets me. Slower reflexes.”

Arthur elbows him back. “They’re still plenty fast, Leon. Mine was a clean shot; you had to compensate for the branches.”

Leon just makes a noise that’s neither agreement nor dissension.

“Here,” Arthur says, handing the dressed pheasants to Percival. He’s already rigged up some green branches to serve as a spit. “Anticipating our success, I see?”

Working at skewering the birds, Percival laughs. “More like hoping that being prepared would serve as its own kind of luck.”

Arthur chuckles. “I’ll have to remember that tactic.”

It takes a while for the birds to slow-roast over the fire, but Arthur uses that time to coax more information from his friends. He remembers a topic he’d wanted to ask about when they’d been observing Gwen during open court. “What was it you meant, Leon, when you said that it’d be best if we didn’t distract Gwen the other day? When she was hearing petitions.”

Again, Percival and Leon share that same look. There’s something mischievous in it, but something else too, that Arthur’s not quite able to put a name to.

“Percival?” Leon invites, almost imploringly.

Percival waves him off. “Oh no, you’re the one who mentioned it, you get to explain it.”

Leon blows out a long-suffering breath, but nods grudgingly. “All right.” He’s already going pink from more than the heat of their fire, so Arthur knows this is going to be entertaining.

“While I can’t quite remember how it started,” he begins and the fact that he can’t quite look Arthur in the eye says that might not be entirely truthful. “I think Percival and I returned from a patrol one afternoon while Gwen was hosting open court. I’ll be honest, sitting in on that can be quite dull.”

Percival mimics a snore.

Arthur chuckles. “Well, I won’t argue that. I absolutely hated having to sit witness to all those petitioners when my father ruled. And it was sometimes the worst part of my day once I had the throne. I hate to speak ill of Camelot’s denizens, but some of them like to fight over the stupidest thing.”

There are sincere nods of agreement.

“So, you understand,” Percival adds just a trifle defensively, “that Leon and I would often do our best to avoid it. But, as he was saying, we’d just got back from a patrol.” He gestures to Leon to keep going.

“Right, well, we came into the throne room in the midst of a very heated discussion between two villagers. I can’t quite recall the matter under dispute.” He scratches at his beard a moment, and then shakes his head. “Probably something to do with money being owed. But, all attention was on these two men who were about three seconds from brawling right there in front of the Queen. And poor Gwen is sitting up there looking like she wants nothing more than to box these fellows about the ears and send them to bed with no supper.” – he flashes a grin – “As an aside, I think that parenthood should be a prerequisite to rule, because nothing teaches patience or how to deal with stubborn people acting like children better than actual children.”

“Nah,” Percival interjects with an amused huff. “Wouldn’t work. Children are much better behaved than most of our Queen’s subjects.”

Leon grins but acknowledges that with a slow nod. “You’re probably right.”

Arthur’s starting to get the impression that they’re avoiding telling this story. He not so subtly urges them to continue. “So, you and Percival are stood in the back of the throne room while all eyes are on these two idiots nearly brawling. What happened next?”

Percival answers, again seeming a bit cagey. “It’s just, Gwen just looked so fed up with it all, you see.”

“Right,” Leon agrees. “And we wanted to lift her spirits.”

“Absolutely.”

Arthur looks between them, at the way they keep avoiding eye contact with each other. “So, c’mon. What did you do that’s clearly so embarrassing? Leon?”

“Well, we managed to get her attention and as there was no one watching, we thought a bit of… distraction might be in order.”

“Distraction?” Arthur repeats.

“Right,” Percival agrees.

“And what form did this distraction take?” His imagination is going a bit wild with speculation and he’s not sure if he’s afraid of the answer or not.

“Um, one thing Leon didn’t mention is that it had rained. Quite heavily.”

“Right,” Leon goes on. “And we’d ridden fairly hard through quite a few fields. So, we were soaked through and rather covered in mud and muck.”

Percival sighs. “Look, it just made sense, you see. We certainly didn’t want to track that into the throne room.”

Arthur groans in frustration. “_What_ made sense?”

There’s a lengthy pause but finally Leon blurts out, “Stripping down.”

“Stripping down?”

Percival – face going very nearly purple – nods. “Right. To our skivvies. Right there at the back of the throne room.”

Leon coughs. “Um, well. To our small clothes… at first.” He lets the implications of that hang in the air.

It takes Arthur a moment for the meaning to sink in. “You stripped _naked_ in the throne room?!” Arthur blurts out. He looks from one to the other and back again, sure they’re having him on. This cannot be true.

But Leon and Percival are both flushed and hanging their heads and sharing a few utterly culpable glances now and then.

“We did,” Leon confirms. “And poor Gwen definitely noticed.”

“Well,” Percival corrects, “she’d noticed while we were undressing, and I think perhaps she was signaling us to stop?” He waves his hands out in front of him in rapid side-to-side motion, but subtly, like he’s trying to be covert.

Leon shrugs. “Eh, perhaps. She _claims_ she was trying to stop us, but who’s to say she wasn’t trying to get us to hurry up?” From his expression – amused defiance- this is clearly something he’s teased Gwen about more than once.

“Yeah, well, once we got fully naked, Gwen immediately covered her face. I’d like to think it was in admiration more than anything.”

“No, no,” Leon shakes his head. “I’d say she stared for a full few minutes _before_ she put her head in her hands.”

Percival concedes. “Okay, perhaps. But at any rate, it didn’t take long after that for people in the room to realize there was something more interesting than two brawling village idiots. And once one head started turning…”

“There may have been a startled scream.”

“Or three.”

Arthur is nearly beside himself with disbelief. He doesn’t know whether to burst out into uproarious laughter or chastise the both for going to such effort at pulling his leg.

“You have got to be joking. You _must_ be.”

Like naughty children, both Leon and Percival shake their heads.

Sure that his mouth is gaping, as it feels like his jaw must’ve come unhinged for as much as it’s dropped through their telling, Arthur can only prod the story forward. “What uh… what happened then?”

“Well, we ran for it, didn’t we?” Percival says, like nothing else would make sense.

“Right.” Leon agrees. “We grabbed up our clothes and gear and bolted.”

Shaking his head, mock-sadly, Percival says, “We later learned that poor Gwen had to try to calm the people in the throne room before things could devolve into further chaos. I think once she got things under control, she told them that we were drunk?” He looks at Leon for confirmation.

“No, she said it was magic. Some harmless spell done in jest. A bit of tomfoolery gone slightly askew.”

The pair of them manage to keep straight-faced for another few moments, but they share a look at Arthur, then with each other and neither can hold it in any longer. Percival bursts out into loud, braying guffaws, while Leon’s laughter is nearly silent but so hard it looks like he’s suffocating from it. They slap at each other’s shoulders and finally Percival shoves Leon so hard he tumbles off his over-turned log. Leon retaliates and drags Percival down with him.

Arthur stares at two of his oldest friends rolling around on the ground like a pair of idiots and shakes his head. “You’re mad. The pair of you are absolutely mad.” But… he’s picturing it now: the two of them, brazenly naked in the back of the throne room; and how utterly ridiculous that must’ve looked like from Gwen’s perspective. And all to lift her spirits during a frustrating session of open court.

It hits him like mace to the gut and he nearly goes breathless with how fast and hard the laughter comes. It’s not very long before he’s lying back in the grass as well, arms curved tight around his belly, muscles nearly cramped from the force of it, and tears streaming down the sides of his face.

But coupled with that near-hysteria, there’s also a hint of sorrow. A little sliver of anger and frustration for all these wonderful things he didn’t get to be a part of. And perhaps his wild, bawdy laughter is louder and a bit more unhinged than it should be; but, most of that is lost in the cover of darkness and the equally loud raucous sounds coming from his friends.

Eventually, they all manage to get themselves under control, but Arthur promises them, “You know I’m going to have to get Gwen’s side of this, don’t you?” And both Leon and Percival bob their heads – like naughty lads caught pilfering sweets - and exchange another telling glance that Arthur can’t quite interpret.

It’s over slightly charred – Percival got distracted telling more embarrassing stories about Leon’s married life – pheasant and some roasted vegetables that Arthur asks something else (a much safer topic, most likely) that’s been on his mind for some time. Something _other_ than amusing tales and not-so-hidden secrets. “Tell me, what has it been like, with the return of magic to Camelot?” He poses the question to both, but Percival defers to Leon.

Leon tosses aside a well-gnawed drumstick and considers that for a long moment. “It was difficult, at first.” He frowns. “There were quite a few council members and advisors who were firmly against the idea when Gwen first proposed it. Men who’d worked not only with you but had also advised Uther. There was a strong mindset that allowing sorcery to return to Camelot would bring nothing but strife and chaos with it. And even some who suggested that Gwen might not be fit to rule, if she was going to suggest such radical things.”

He shakes his head, like that idea is unfathomable. “But, those of us who were upon the plains of Camlann had much different opinions. Even before we’d known who the old sorcerer was, we knew that he saved the lives of so many of Camelot’s army. So, Gwen had the support of the knights and soldiers and much of the populace as well. I think that helped to push through some of the early changes.

“Still,” he goes on, “she made those changes slowly, in stages. Gaius advised her heavily through all of it. Admittedly, it was a few years before there was any open sorcery practiced in the city. And that did bring with it its own share of troubles.” He and Percival both make noises of derision.

Arthur lifts a brow. “What kind of troubles?”

“Just that we’ve had our fair share of folk trying to take advantage,” Percival answers. “If it’s not folk accusing their neighbors of using sorcery for nefarious purpose–”

Leon interrupts to add, “One of the laws surrounding the fair use of magic states that it can’t be used to cause harm or bring unfair advantage in matters of commerce.”

“Right,” Percival continues. “So, it got to be a headache for a while. Seemed like every petition brought before the court had to do with misuse of magic or some similar complaint. Gwen finally had to institute a rule that any complaints about sorcery went before a committee, to be judged for validity before they could be brought before the court.”

“Ahh, but tell Arthur who Gwen got to serve on that committee,” Leon says with a jerk of his chin.

Percival grins. “Brilliant strategy on her part. She made a bargain with the druids. A few of their folk came to Camelot, and Gwen was quick to take their help where she could.”

“Druids? Living in Camelot?” When Gaius had been discussing his situation he’d not mentioned anything about there being druids in residence in Camelot. Nor had Iseldir mentioned it during their discussion two days prior. “I thought they preferred to live in the woods and such?”

“Not always,” Leon answers. “And not all of them. I guess that before the days of the Great Purge there were quite a few druid folk in Camelot. Many of them only took to the woods because they had nowhere else to go.”

“Then why didn’t Gaius suggest I talk to one of them. I mean, if Iseldir hadn’t arrived to petition Gwen, they might not have known the results of their own spell.”

Shrugging, Percival says. “I don’t know for certain, as even the city druids are a bit of a quiet bunch, but I think there’s some animosity between some of them. The lot we’ve got living in town and helping out at the castle aren’t quite the same as those that still live in the forest.” Again, he hefts his shoulders. “I’m not much of an expert on druids.”

Leon spreads his hands. “Nor am I. Though they all seem to share the same beliefs.”

He gives Percival exchange another of those looks that Arthur can’t interpret. “The druids call this the ‘Time of Albion’.”

Arthur’s heard that phrase before, he just can’t place where. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Leon rolls a shoulder back in a semi-shrug. “Well, from what we know, it’s got to do with you and Merlin. Gaius could probably explain it better, but if it can help you with Merlin, it’s probably good for you to know.”

He nods at Percival to continue. “Gaius told us that you and Merlin were destined to bring about a time of peace for all of Albion. That that’s been your fate from the beginning. Yours and Merlin’s. The kingdoms of Albion would unite and magic would be free again and there would be peace and prosperity.”

“The druids think that time is now.” Leon spreads his hands. “It’s hard to ignore what they say. Though it took a few years and a few battles to get there, we’ve peace treaties with all the five kingdoms and even beyond. Magic is no longer outlawed. These last few years have been quite prosperous and peaceful.”

He remembers telling Merlin, after he’d killed Morgana, that he’d brought peace at last. That thought in mind Arthur says, “I don’t know how much I really had to do with it. Merlin was the one to finally kill Morgana. And it’s because of his actions that magic is accepted.”

Once again, Percival and Leon do that silent communication thing that they’re so good at. “Arthur,” Leon begins gently, “Merlin is who is he is because of _you_. Gaius said he’d spent practically every day since arriving in Camelot doing whatever needed to be done to save your life.”

“And hiding his magic,” Percival adds.

Arthur shakes his head. He’s not following, not entirely. On that last journey with Merlin he’d come to finally understand some of what Merlin must’ve done over the years, but he’d obviously not quite realized just how… expansive that truth really was.

Leon takes pity on him. “It’s only because of you that any of this happened, Arthur. This ‘Time of Albion’ that the druids speak of is because of you both. Merlin would never have done any of the things he did if it weren’t for you. And it’s because of your choices and actions as our king that Gwen is the much-beloved ruler that she is. Your hand is in all of this as well.” He gestures vaguely to air around him. “Every bit of peace and prosperity we’re living through now is due to you both.”

Percival nods. “It’s true.”

“Uh, thank you.” It’s probably not enough, but Arthur’s rather at a loss for what else to say. This is one of those topics that’s going to need to be raised with Merlin if… _when_ he finds him.

“Perhaps,” Leon begins tentatively, “that’s what’s at risk right now?”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks.

“Whatever it is that’s going on with Merlin.” He pauses, like he’s considering the idea. “I just wonder if it presents some kind of risk to this time of Albion.”

Though he’s not fully grasped the enormity of his and Merlin’s fate bringing about some golden age, Leon’s idea doesn’t seem that farfetched.

Percival, to Arthur’s surprise, shakes his head and says, “I don’t think that’s it. I mean, this time of peace is already upon us. I mean, sure, I suppose if something that Merlin’s doing could somehow trigger war or…” he shrugs. “But, I just remember something that Gaius and I talked about a long time ago.” He looks at Arthur sympathetically. “It was not long after I came back from Avalon, maybe a few weeks after Gwen’s coronation. I had a conversation with Gaius about, well,” –he ducks his head– “that I was feeling quite terrible that I’d left Merlin alone out there. That I’d not insisted he come back to Camelot with me.”

A very small, niggling part of the back of Arthur’s mind understands that guilt and, though he hates himself for feeling it, agrees that if only Percival had dragged Merlin back with him, Merlin wouldn’t have spent the last seventeen years alone. He doesn’t listen to that small voice, instead saying, “He wouldn’t have come back with you, you know.” Because Arthur knows, somehow, that this is true. “Even if you’d tried to force him, he’d not have come.”

Percival shrugs. “Maybe. Gaius didn’t think so either, but…” his shoulders lift and fall again. “And I guess knowing that Gaius has talked to him, I suppose he was right. Anyway, something Gaius said then stuck with me. He said that Merlin had his own path to follow and it had to do with you,” he nods to Arthur. “Something about waiting for you. Now, I don’t know if that means for what’s going on right now, but I don’t think so. I think Merlin’s still got a destiny that’s to do with you.”

Leon puzzles it out before Arthur can reply. “So, you think whatever is going on now, might somehow interfere with that destiny.”

“Seems possible.”

Arthur sighs. “It certainly does seem possible. But I’m not sure of what destiny Merlin could have that’s got to do with me. I mean…” he spreads his hands a little helplessly. “Despite evidence to the contrary, I’m dead.”

He’s not surprised when both Leon and Percival react – with a flinch from one and a cringe the other – at that statement, but they both nod in reluctant agreement as well.

“Well, yeah,” Percival says. “But you’re not _now_, and that’s for a reason.”

“True,” Arthur agrees. “I just don’t think we’ll be able to suss out the reason that I’m here, or what’s going on with Merlin until I find him.”

Arthur doesn’t want to end the evening on such heavy conversation – though he’s glad of what he knows now – so he begins to reminisce instead. He recalls their first meeting with Percival, and the battle to reclaim Camelot and how grateful he’d been to have such amazing allies at his side.

Percival shares a few of his favorite stories about Gwaine, and though there’s a tightness around his eyes when he does, he’s able to laugh deep and loud. Leon rounds out their night with a few of his favorite memories of Lancelot and Elyan that leave them all laughing.

When Arthur draws his cloak over his shoulders and settles into his bedroll, he’s still caught up in the memories of those years past. Lying there under the canopy of flickering stars and the barest sliver of a moon, he drifts in the pleasant haze of remembrance, until he finally falls asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

As dawn breaks Arthur rises with the sun.

He blinks awake to a faint wash of golden light coming over the forest to the east that’s just brightening the sky with its pre-dawn glow. He stretches slowly, feeling the usual aches and twinges from nights spent on the hard ground rather than his soft mattress. Though, come to think of it, it’s not really his bed anymore.

Fighting off the melancholy that thought brings, Arthur forces himself up: first to sitting and then onto his feet. On the other side of the smoldering coals of their mostly burned-out fire Percival and Leon are still asleep in their bedrolls, cloaks thrown over them. Leon’s tousled curls are just visible beneath the edge of the crimson material and his stocking-feet stick out the other end uncovered, while Percival is curled up on his side under his, knees bent and one outstretched arm pillowing his head.

Seeing them like that sends another of those aches through Arthur’s breast. It’s such a hard thing, especially at times like this when everything is so familiar and so…right, for Arthur to face that this isn’t his life any longer. This isn’t what’s real for him.

What’s real is that he’s here, alive in this world for however short a time, to complete a task. And, much as he wants to pretend otherwise, he can’t continue on like that’s not his new truth. Blowing out a soft sigh, Arthur crosses the clearing on lightly treading feet to go ready his horse.

Leon and Percival will be angry…

Well, no. They won’t be _angry_. They’ll be disappointed at his decision, which is worse. Anger he could accept as his due. Disappointment, carrying with it that wounded animal look Percival sometimes gets (mostly over Gwaine now) and Leon’s sideward frown (the one that tugs at the corner of his mouth when he doesn’t want to believe someone he trusts is letting him down), is something he doesn’t want to face. But going on without them is the right thing to do. He’s pulled them away from their lives – their real, full, brilliant lives – for too long already.

Of course, when he’s got his mount saddled and has finished shifting some of the supplies from their pack horse to his own bags, he’s not surprised to hear footsteps come up behind him.

“Off already?” Leon asks. His voice is light, but there’s a dangerous undercurrent there.

“Figured you’d get an early start?” Percival follows with, and he’s taking no pains to hide how betrayed he sounds.

Arthur’s head falls, chin nearly touching his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. He can’t turn around to face them. “It’s better this way, though. I need to be off. I’ve tarried too long as it is. And the both of you have duties and responsibilities to return to.”

One of them snorts, but Arthur’s not sure who.

“Duties be damned, Arthur,” Percival bites out. “We’re with you in this. _You’re_ our responsibility.”

Leon is still far too placid when he says, “You cannot force us to abandon you, Arthur.”

Arthur turns then, spinning sharply to face them. Their expressions are exactly as he feared. Though in a way that’s almost a comfort, because it’s yet another thing that’s not changed. “No,” Arthur agrees with a little shake of his head, “I can’t. But I can _ask_ you to.” He lifts an arm, pointing toward the distant sea. “We’re only a few hours journey from the shore. You know I could’ve asked you to ride no further than that.”

Leon’s jaw juts out further and he looks off to the side, but Percival just squints at Arthur like he doesn’t understand. “You’d not give us the chance to spend that time with you? Arthur, this is all the time we’ll ever have…” He trails off, suddenly, pressing his lips tight. His nostrils flare.

Hands coming up imploringly, Arthur steps closer to his friends. “I promise you both, as I promised Gwen, this is _not_ our final farewell. I will come back to Camelot before my time is done. I promise you,” he insists. “But I have to go on, alone.” He lets his arms drop back to his sides, clenching his fists in frustration.

It’s Leon who nods – just the barest little incline of his head – but he finally looks over at Arthur. “You’re right. You do.”

“But–” Percival starts to protest, looking at Leon and then Arthur in confusion. “Leon, we can’t just let him go off on his own.”

“We can,” Leon replies, talking to Percival but looking Arthur in the eye. “And we will.” He goes silent a moment and then it’s like the fight goes out of him on the breath of an exhale. His shoulders slump as he sighs. He turns to Percival. “Can’t you feel it, Percival? That sense that we’re not where we should be? I think it’s the magic. Whatever sorcery that brought Arthur back is compelling him forward, and we’re not meant to go along.”

Percival scrubs at the back of his neck. He looks like he wants to protest further but eventually he nods as well. “Yeah, I’ve felt that too. Like we’re caught in a thick fog, that’s getting harder to pass through.”

Leon gives a wan grin. “I suspect that if we tried to follow Arthur, something would prevent us doing so. It’s his quest, and his alone. We’ve got to let him get to it.”

Arthur lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It just figures that it’s not his own plea that persuaded them, but the magic. “I _will_ see you again,” he repeats, needing them to believe it.

“We know, Arthur.” Leon claps him on the arm. He still looks a little ragged around the edges, like he’s barely holding on to his decision.

“Percival?” Arthur asks, making his name the question.

It takes Percival a long moment, but he does nod. “Yeah, we know.” He slaps his palm against Arthur’s shoulder quite a bit harder than Leon did. “But at least spare the time for breakfast, would you?”

A genuine laugh bursts from Arthur’s lips. “All right,” he agrees. “I can do that.”

Leon helps him finish up with readying his gear and insists that he keep the pack mount (his argument that “Merlin’s going to need a horse eventually, Arthur.” is particularly persuasive), while Percival goes back to restoke their fire and ready their meal.

Circled around the bubbling pot and the crackling fire, they keep the conversation light as Percival shares out bowls of steaming porridge (liberally sweetened, the way Arthur prefers it).

“Plan on staying close to the coast?” Leon asks him.

Arthur nods. “Yes, I think that’s the best plan. Gaius only said that the Great Dragon’s grave lies somewhere to the north of the lake, but I think keeping close to the water is my best bet.”

“You’ll pass Fyrien’s Castle then. Last reports indicate that it’s not inhabited but be on your guard.”

“I certainly will be. The last time I was there was when we had to go and rescue Elyan, and Cenred had run of the place.” He thinks back on that encounter, remembering the strange way that Morgause’s magic had seemingly backfired on her. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Merlin showed up in the throne room almost immediately after.

Leon’s words – about them never knowing just how many times Merlin risked saving them with his magic – echo in his head.

“Elyan told us about that,” Percival says. “He said it was the first time he met you, and the first time he got to fight by your side.”

Arthur smiles. “I remember. He showed quite some skill with a sword. More than I’d have expected from the son of a blacksmith. But then again, both of that blacksmith’s children were always full of surprises.”

Leon grins.

Far too soon Arthur is scraping his bowl for the last spoonful. For as much as he wanted to sneak away without his friends knowing, now that he’s facing the prospect of going it alone, he’s reluctant. But whatever drive it is that’s urging him to find Merlin – whether it’s the magic, or something in his own desires – can’t be ignored.

He sets his bowl aside and stands up. Percival and Leon do as well. “You’ll be off then?” Leon asks.

“Yes. It’s time.”

Percival steps around the stones that circle the fire and grabs Arthur by the shoulders. “Stay safe out here, Arthur. And good luck with your quest.” He pulls Arthur into a brief, but extremely fierce embrace.

Arthur’s left gasping for air after it. “I will,” he agrees, somewhat breathlessly. He turns to Leon then. “Take care of each other on your journey back to Camelot.”

Leon bows his head. “We will, Arthur. And you be sure to remember your promise to us. Come back to Camelot and bring Merlin with you.” He doesn’t wait for Arthur’s agreement, just steps across the short distance between them and tugs Arthur into a back-slapping hug that Arthur returns just as emphatically.

“I’ll see you both soon,” he tells them. “You have my word on that.”

Arthur knows they’re watching after him once he’s turned to gather the horses, but he can’t bring himself to look back. He mounts up, gets the lead rope for the pack horse looped around the pommel and then presses his heels into his horse’s sides. He raises an arm, just briefly, as his horse prances a few paces and then settles into an easy canter.

Leaving Leon and Percival behind grates at him – it feels as if he’s abandoning his comrades – but there’s also a sense of rightness that he’s going it alone.

The silvery band of the sea grows larger as the morning wears on. It’s not more than an hour before the hillocks and outcroppings give way to prairie and then thin, sparse scrub as the soil underfoot gets lighter and sandier. He slows his horse to a walk when he reaches a stretch of dunes, and the sound of the waves lapping against a rocky short add a rhythmic counterpoint to the plodding hoof beats.

The Sea of Meredor is a vast expanse of deep cerulean as far as he can see.

He guides his horse to the north then, putting the sea to his left flank. He doesn’t want to ride too close to the water, both to spare the horses trudging through sand, and to try to avoid any dangers that may lurk around the shoreline. Luckily this whole stretch of land as far as he can see looks to be uninhabited.

Without the echoing of other riders, or the companionable chatter to keep him company, the day seems to drag as Arthur rides on. He holds Crowfoot at a pace intended to keep both mounts fresh, alternating between a ground-eating lope and a slow, easy-to-sit jog. Overhead, the sky goes from morning bright to dense cloud-cover by afternoon. Those clouds darken, bringing on an early twilight and the breeze picks up, carrying with it the scent of moisture that’s different than the salt-tang of the sea.

Arthur’s in for a damp evening, that’s for certain.

Eventually the shoreline starts to turn northwest and Arthur keeps that same distance from it, his path following in a slow, steady arc. The rain starts – a misting drizzle at first, but the deep rumbling and flashes of light near to the east promise a heavy storm – just as he spots a dark smudge on the far horizon. From its height and size, he knows it’s got to be Castle Fyrien. Based on the distance and what he can tell of the position of the sun overhead, he’ll just make the castle by nightfall, if he’s lucky. And if he’s very lucky, he’ll outride the worst of the coming storm. If what Leon said still holds true and it’s not inhabited, it’ll be a good, secure, – and most importantly – dry spot to make camp.

His luck doesn’t hold. The massy grey thunderheads roll over him, blackening the sky, and in a flash it’s like the heavens split open, and the drizzle becomes a sheeting downpour. He’s soaked through by the time he reaches the narrow bridge that separates the keep from the rocky land surrounding it. He pauses there, studying the structure as best he can through the blurry dark. There are no fires that he can see, no smoke coiling out of open windows and no sounds that he can hear over the steady, driving patter of the rain.

Hopefully Leon was right.

Dismounting, he guides both his horses into the keep and then further into the castle, and hurries to get under shelter. Fortunately, the corridors are tall and wide and the horses fit through with no struggle, and he leads them far enough that there won’t be any chill breezes from open windows whose glass is shattered and shutters long since repurposed. He stops inside a large chamber that looks like it has not seen use in many years. It was probably a bedchamber at one point, judging by the small hearth and some of the scraps of furniture that remain. It’ll serve him well enough tonight. There’s also a small antechamber connected – perhaps a servants quarters – which will stand nicely as a makeshift stable. He’ll be able to keep the horses close, but not have to share the room with them (and their leavings).

Arthur gets a fire started in the hearth, using the scraps of wood from an old wardrobe and two shattered chairs. He’ll need to go in search of other fuel soon enough, but the merrily crackling fire brings light and warmth to the room in a matter of moments.

He tends the horses next, using the tattered remnants of a bed canopy to wipe them down as best he can. They’re surprisingly calm for being indoors and confined while the storm outside picks up (he’d been slightly worried they might panic). Even several rooms removed from the exterior of the castle, he can hear the thunder roar with increasing frequency and the ferocity of the wind pick up.

Another rumble feels like it shakes the very foundations of the castle and Arthur frowns in the middle of getting a feedbag strapped around the head of the pack horse. He lifts his head and listens for it again.

When the sound repeats Arthur realizes that it’s not the thunder or the storm.

It’s something else entirely.

Leaving the horses behind, Arthur dashes back the way he came. He nearly gets lost navigating the dark hallways – he should’ve thought to bring a makeshift torch – but eventually he runs back out into the rain and searches the sky.

That low, roiling grumble of sound echoes again and Arthur frantically scans the heavens.

There! Coming over off the choppy, white-capped waves, like a fogbank rolling in, is a ghostly white shape. It’s huge… Much bigger than the dragon that harried them at Camlann. There’s no mistaking it, however. The beast is pale, and its outstretched wings span a length that a dozen horses end-to-end wouldn’t reach.

It opens its mouth and lets loose with that baleful sounding roar; it vibrates through the very ground at Arthur’s feet and reverberates in his chest.

This is the dragon Gaius spoke of. And the one that he thought Merlin might be found with.

As the massive creature comes up to the waters’ edge, where the waves break violently against jagged rocks, it rears back in mid-air, flapping its wings in powerful beats and catches the stormwind beneath them. It rises effortlessly on the updraft and begins to climb higher and higher into the sky.

Panicking, Arthur runs out onto the squelching grass of the keep yard, waving his arms frantically. “Wait! Don’t go.”

He has no idea how to get the attention of a dragon for goodness sake!

He shouts and flails and curses, but the dragon simply continues its upward course. It’s disappearing into the thick cloud cover and Arthur despairs.

What had Gaius said the beast was called?

Aithusa. That’s right!

“Aithusa!” he practically screams, the name tearing out of his throat.

He waits, and then for one, hopeful moment he feels triumphant; the dragon reappears in a flash, diving down from the clouds like a vessel emerging from the thick fog.

Arthur laughs and waves his arms again, calling the beast’s attention to him. Then he realizes that the dragon _isn’t_ heading in his direction. It’s merely diving down through the air, its wings tight to its sides. When it unfurls them again, they billow out, catching the wind and then the dragon begins to spiral and circle through the air.

It’s playing. Its cries aren’t plaintive, but joyful.

“Dammit,” Arthur curses. He’d not gotten the dragon’s attention at all. The beast is merely frolicking in the stormy weather. And its cavorting path is now carrying it further and further away from the castle.

“Merlin.” The name is a whisper on Arthur’s lips when the white dragon disappears from view in the darkness.

Grumbling, and now wetter than before, Arthur trudges back into the keep.

Luckily his mad dash out of the castle didn’t upset the horses; they’re still placidly munching on the hearty oats.

Disheartened, Arthur sheds the cloak that’s nearly choking him it’s so heavy with water and kicks off his boots as well. He wrings out the cloak in the hallway – it creates quite a puddle – and sets it and the boots near the fire. The supplies in his saddle bags remain dry at least, so he’s got a change of clothes and – most importantly – dry socks. After changing and eating a cold meal of dried meat and trail biscuits, Arthur fashions a makeshift torch from the scrap of fabric he’d used to wipe down the horses and the remaining leg of a chair.

It doesn’t take him long to explore the surrounding rooms and gather enough scraps of shattered wood and musty cloth to keep his fire going the rest of the night. He even manages to find a few not entirely moldering pillows and he arranges these under his bedroll.

Staring into the snapping, popping tongues of flames that dance in hues of orange and blue and even green (perhaps the moth-eaten painting Arthur’d feed to it just before settling down) Arthur tries not to let his failure with the dragon get him down. If anything, he tells himself, it should be a positive sign. Because where the dragon is, he is likely to find Merlin.

And though he suspects dragons can venture very far in a very short time, it doesn’t seem likely that one would fly leagues from its den… or cave… or wherever it is that dragons roost, just to play in the rain. So, he might not even be that far from Merlin.

Clinging to that hope, Arthur finally sleeps.


	11. Chapter 11

The restless whinny of a horse – followed almost immediately by a second – jolts Arthur awake. He sits up, scrambling around frantically for his sword. The fire has burned itself out, but there’s a low light filtering into the room from the hallway, and as Arthur gets a hand around the hilt and draws the blade to him, he remembers.

Right. Fyrien’s castle. The storm.

Blowing out an aggrieved breath, Arthur slumps back down into the lumpy – and not all that soft – bedroll. He listens for a moment but can hear no sign that the storm is still raging. In fact, there’s no sound of rain at all, which he takes to mean that the foul weather has passed.

One of the horses’ neighs again, and Arthur sits back up. It doesn’t sound like an alarmed sort of call. He wonders if the beasts are just getting fractious from being pent up in the small chamber. Judging by the restless clamping of hooves on stone, that’s likely closer to the truth than anything Arthur need worry about.

His boots are almost dry when he pulls them on, and he leads the animals out of the castle and into the open and overgrown courtyard. He finds an overturned stone bench that’s gathered a good amount of rainwater, lets the horses drink, and then ties them up to let them graze while he gets himself ready.

He’d lost track of the dragon the night before when it was flying somewhat northwest, and as that’s the direction he’s been headed, Arthur figures he might be on the right trail. He lets that thought, and the hope of finding Merlin, buoy him as he hurries down a quick and cold breakfast and then readies for another long day in the trail.

Leaving the Castle of Fyrien behind, Arthur urges his horse to a gallop as soon as the ground is clear. He doesn’t want to push the animals too hard, but there’s an urgency driving at him now. Where he finds the dragon, he’ll find Merlin. He keeps his eyes upward as he rides, casting about for any hint or sign of anything that might resemble a dragon and might lead him on the right path.

Unfortunately, he spots no dragons, or caves or even any ruins that might serve as a good nesting place for something so large. The day slogs on, damp, misty morning giving way to a humid, sticky afternoon and eventually he must slow his pace for the sake of the horses. He stops sometime around midday at a stream to let the animals rest and to have a quick meal, but carries on after only a short pause.

Like the day before, it’s not until the sky is already darkening that Arthur finally sees some sign of habitation: though human rather than…reptilian (or whatever it is that dragons are). The rocky, scrubby plain has been slowly giving way to a scattered forest and through the thickening trees he spies buildings. He can’t see how many, but enough to suggest he’s nearing a small village.

He desperately hopes there’s an Inn!

The thought of a hot meal drives him that last distance and he rides into the small, somewhat ramshackle town well after twilight. There aren’t any folk about, but there’s smoke coming from chimneys and the warm glow of firelight spilling out of many a window.

And there’s an Inn.

Dismounting wearily, Arthur finds a sleepy stable boy who perks up a bit when Arthur offers him two silvers to settle the horses for the night.

“Are there rooms to let?” he asks, shouldering his pack and unloading any of his more important gear from the saddles so the boy can get to work.

“Aye, there should be at least two,” the boy answers. “I’ll see your beasties are well looked after, sir.”

Arthur thinks for a moment of calling the boy back after he’s already led the animals into the small byre, to ask about Merlin, but decides he’ll come back to it should the folk inside the Inn offer no answers. He can smell roasting meat and rich, heady mead and he’s had a ridiculously long day in the saddle, so he pushes his way inside.

There are a few customers scattered here and there, and the place is dimly lit, but seems clean enough; it’s a sight better than several of the disreputable taverns he’s found himself in the past. All eyes turn to him when he enters, and the common room goes quiet, which isn’t entirely unexpected as he’s a stranger. Fixing a carefully neutral expression on his face, Arthur crosses the room to the bar.

There’s a gruff looking barman –grey, grizzled hair and a thick beard over an age-hewn face with well-muscled arms crossed over his barrel chest – standing behind a long slab of heavily scarred wood that’s resting on stacked ale kegs. He grunts out a noise when Arthur steps up opposite him and Arthur takes that as a feeble greeting.

“Tankard of mead,” Arthur starts. “And have you got anything hot to eat?” He’s assuming the doorway behind the bar leads to a kitchen. His nose, at least, tells him that’s the case.

“It’s two copper for the mead,” the man says shortly. When Arthur fishes that payment out of a jangling coin purse the barman looks a little less wary. He gives a little nod. “We got fish chowder or venison and veg. Those’ll cost you six.”

“And what about a room?” Arthur hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “The boy in the stable mentioned you might have room.”

“Aye,” the man nods. “We could do you a room. A silver for the night and use of the stables.”

Arthur sets another two silver pieces on the bar. “I’ll take the room, both the venison and a bowl of the chowder, and I’ve got a second horse, so I think this is only fair.”

A small smile plays around the man’s mouth as he picks up the coins. “Fair indeed,” he agrees. He calls back into the kitchen for the food then goes to pull Arthur’s mug. “Room is at the top of the stairs and on your left.”

Arthur thanks the man, who is looking at him much more favorably while he draws from the mead barrel, and heads to the stairs. Apparently, the barman’s approval is enough to assuage whatever curiosity the locals have as well, at least for the moment. Conversation has resumed and he’s mostly ignored as he makes his way up to the second floor.

The room is small, but there are fresh linens folded on the foot of the straw-stuffed mattress and an ewer and basin rest on a small night stand. He stays long enough to slide his sword under the mattress (though he keeps a long knife at his belt) stow his gear and leave the heavy, still slightly damp cloak draped over the bed, and then returns to the common room.

The barman carries over a plate, bowl and mug – skillfully balancing all three – when Arthur takes a seat at a table. He gives a nod of thanks and digs in. The chowder is slightly briny and thick with large chunks of tender whitefish, small cockles and vegetables. From the saltiness, Arthur assumes the fish and cockles come from the Sea of Meredor. It’s quite delicious, as is the venison. Even the mead tastes good: with faint spice, and sweet from more than just honey. Berries possibly? Whatever it is, he downs his tankard thirstily and then wipes his mouth with the back of a sleeve.

When he looks up a few people – including the barman – are staring at him. He feels a flush come to his cheeks, although that might just be from having quaffed a large quantity of rather strong mead.

The barman pulls another mug and carries it over. “Bit hungry were yeh?”

Arthur chuckles and accepts it gratefully. “I was. I’ve been on the road for two days with only trail bread and salted meat, and no time to stop for fresh game. Though, I think even if I’d had a meal just a few hours gone from the kitchens of Camelot itself, I’d have enjoyed that just as much. The food was wonderful.”

The barman puffs up and looks around at the other patrons, clearly pleased by Arthur’s praise. “’Tis my wife what does the cookin’ round here. She’d be chuffed to know yer so fond of it.”

“Please do convey my appreciation.” That seems to befuddle the man slightly, so Arthur rephrases, “Please tell her I thought it was delicious.”

“Oh, aye. I can do that.” He nods.

Arthur takes another draw from the brimming mug of mead and smacks his lips. “Do you get many travelers through here?” Arthur asks the barman, who seems to have taken Arthur’s enthusiastic words as an invitation to sit down.

The man shrugs. “Eh, depends on the season. There’re a few trappers and fisherfolk what come through when the weather starts to turn and the fish run.” He studies Arthur with interest. “What is it tha’ brings you through these parts?”

Arthur glances around, seeing several of the closest faces turn toward him in interest again. He can understand their curiosity. If they’re mostly used to people passing through following game migrations or spawning seasons then a stranger showing up late evening, off-season, has got to be unusual.

He’d waited to bring up Merlin until after the meal on purpose. He’s slightly worried that – considering his association with both the dragon and magic – Merlin might not be well thought of by the wary locals. That is, _if_ he even passed through here at all.

“I’m looking for someone,” Arthur begins. “He’s a man, a few years older than myself. Tall. Well, my height. Shaggy dark hair, rather prominent ears”–he mimes messy hair and cups his hands at the sides of his head– “and probably a bit quiet.”

At his description the barman’s eyebrows go up. “You’re lookin’ for that peculiar lad!” He points a meaty finger in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur’s inhales sharply. While the phrase ‘peculiar lad’ isn’t very specific, he can certainly understand how it might apply to Merlin.

“Yeah, he were a strange one. Came through, oh,” –he scratches his head– “about half a year back. I remember well cuz it was winter and we were havin’ a pretty bad freeze. And this lad comes in, no furs, or gloves or heavy boots. Just a raggedy blue cloak on his shoulders over a thin tunic. But he didn’t complain none about the cold. He got himself a room, paid me a full gold piece, and stayed on about a fortnight. Then one mornin’ he didn’t come down to break his fast. I checked up on him, and found he’d scarpered during the night.” He shrugs. “Left some of his belongings behind and left me another gold piece, so I weren’t troubled about findin’ him after.”

Six months ago? Damn.

Merlin could be anywhere by now. The elation that Arthur started to feel deflates and he holds in a frustrated sigh. At the very least, perhaps he can get a direction Merlin was headed, or find out if he said anything that might’ve indicated where he was going.

“I don’t suppose you had any idea where he might’ve gone?”

The barman shakes his head. “No, sorry. Though I can tell you he was asking after some pretty strange things.” He ducks his head lower, closer to Arthur. “People ‘round here don’t normally truck with the sort of thing he was on about.”

“What was that?”

“Well, for starters, he must’ve asked every one of the folk in this village what they knew about the,” he leans in even closer, dropping his voice to a whisper, “the dragon.”

“Dra–” Arthur starts to echo but stops himself as the barman shakes his head furiously.

“You’d be best not to repeat that too loud, friend,” he cautions. “These folk put up with your lad on account of he brought some tonics with him that helped clear up a nasty sort of coughing sickness that had plagued half the village. But there’s only so much good will such a thing carries with it. And it only lasts so long when you start nosin’ around about peculiar things. I think the lad buggered out in the night on account of the way the folk around here were whisperin’ about him. It weren’t good.”

Arthur does let the heavy sigh escape then. “So, he helped heal people, but they still didn’t want him around.”

The barman hefts broad shoulder. “That’s the way of it, I’m afraid. Now,” he ducks close again. “The real bugger of a thing about all this is that most of the folk ‘round here _have_ seen the dragon.”

“I don’t understand?” Arthur frowns. “If they know of–” he almost lets it slip again. “If they’ve seen this… creature, why would they be so upset with Mer… my friend asking after it?”

“’Tis a bad omen to see the great ghostly beast.” He says it so dramatically that Arthur leans back and studies him a moment, needing to be sure he’s not being played for a fool. But the barman’s eyes are wide, and his expression is sincere.

“A bad omen?” Arthur repeats.

“Aye. ‘Tis said that whenever someone sees the beast, trouble and strife are sure to follow.” He gives a firm nod, like he believes that to be the absolute truth and his fingers flick out in a quick little motion, close to the table. It’s a peasant’s gesture that Arthur’s seen used in some of the smaller villages, said to ward off spirits or evil or some such nonsense.

Well, it makes sense then why the villagers wouldn’t have been keen to have Merlin around if he kept bringing up something they looked upon with such superstition.

He reminds himself that Gaius did say that Merlin had been looking to find Aithusa. So, it still stands to reason that if she’s close, Merlin could be as well.

Carefully, he asks, “Do people in the village see this spectre often?”

The barman shakes his head. “Thankfully, no. Though, most often when it’s spotted it’s night and the thing comes from the west, over the water. There’s lots of folk who won’t travel no further west than this village. And many who don’t venture out after dark.”

So, Aithusa is most often seen coming in from the west? Arthur thinks on where he must be in relation to the map he’s got stowed away in his pack upstairs. It’s possible he’s further north than he realized. “I don’t suppose you know where we are in relation to the Isle of the Blessed.”

The barman’s face blanches and he rocks back. He makes that funny sign in front of himself again, a quick little motion of his fingers, and then stares at Arthur like he’s sprouted a second head. Quite adamantly he hisses out, “’Round here its’ bad enough to talk about that great ghostly beastie, but you start askin’ after that cursed place and yer like to get chased out o’ town no matter how much coin you’ve spent.”

Arthur lifts his hands, palms out and fingers splayed. “Sorry, my friend. I only asked because I saw the name on a map I was given. I’m just trying to orient myself.”

“Oh.” The barman deflates, shoulders lowering and jaw unclenching. “Well, that’s all right then. We’re about a two-score leagues southwesterly of the dark lake and _that_ accursed ruin.”

He _is_ further north that he’d realized. For as dreadfully mind-numbing as it was, the day he spent in the saddle was certainly beneficial. “Thank you,” Arthur tells the barman. “I appreciate your help.”

The barman eyes him a moment. “You say you’re lookin’ for the peculiar fellow, eh?”

Arthur nods. “I am.”

Hiking a thumb over his shoulder, the barman explains, “He left some of his things behind when he cut out. I’ve just had it sittin’ behind the bar ever since. Think I suspected he might come back for it. Seems like some personal sorta things.” His mouth twists up funny. “Fair bit o’ coin as well.” Coin, Arthur understands from the slightly shifty way the barman won’t meet his eyes, that he’s helped himself to. “Any rate, think you could take the lad his things? I’d do well to get that out from underfoot.”

“I can do that,” Arthur agrees. He’s curious about what Merlin might’ve left behind. It’s possible it might assist him in his search. “And,” he adds with a wide grin, “keep the coin.”

As the man across from him starts to sputter a protest (likely token, by the glint in his eyes), Arthur waves it away. “Don’t worry about it. If he left it behind, I’m sure my friend would’ve wanted you to have it.”

The barman still looks oddly hesitant. He drops back into that conspiratorial pose again. “Look, there’s one thing I ain’t mentioned, and you’re not like to hear from anyone else.” He glances around furtively. “A few folk who’ve passed through these past couple of months, those trappers and fisherman I mentioned. Well, they’ve told some tales of a strange figure. Now, it’s just a rumor, and I don’t like to gossip none, but it seems it might be somethin’ you’d wanna hear.”

“Strange figure?” Arthur echoes, too curious to roll his eyes at the remark about gossip (the man’s done nothing but!). “What do you mean?”

Again, the barman hesitates. “Well, one of ‘em said they saw one of the fae folk in the woods. Said it was a pale figure, dressed in tatters, who came to the edge of his camp. Didn’t talk or nothin’, but just watched him a few minutes then disappeared back into the woods. Now, I’d have thought the man just a fool, or perhaps havin’ a go at me, but another fellow said he saw the much the same. This bloke didn’t think it were no fae, but a wild man. Said he’d looked half-mad.”

He leans back a little bit, and shrugs. “Dunno if this has anything to do with your friend, but another lad who came through, got a bit drunk and told the same story. He described the fellow a bit better, thought he might be one o’ them druids, and it happens to sound a lot like the lad who’d stayed here that fortnight. Though, this feller had to be pullin’ my leg, as he said this druidy-lad had golden eyes and fingers that were tipped in claws, like a beast.” He blows out a derisive snort.

The golden eyes might make sense. He’s seen first-hand the way that Merlin’s eyes flash when he uses magic, but the claws? That’s another story. Though, if the traveler was deep in his cups, perhaps it was just exaggeration.

“Do you know where these sightings took place?” Arthur asks, trying not to sound too anxious. But this _has_ to be Merlin… it just has to be.

“Aye,” the man nods. “All of ‘em were to the west of here. There’s a range of mountains that start up about twenty, twenty-five miles from here. There’s good hunting in the low foothills along the edge of the sea. Most of ‘em said they saw this fellow in the forests out that way, heading up into the stones. They were lookin’ to do some trappin’ in the caves and whatnot, but none of ‘em ever did. Scared off, they were, and I don’t blame ‘em.” He shakes his head. “That great pale beastie is bad enough, but a wild man runnin’ about ain’t nothin’ to truck with.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says with a sigh of an exhale.

The barman stands. “I’ll just get that satchel for ya. Um, yer sure about that coin?”

Arthur nods, distracted. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

If these sightings are indeed of Merlin, then Arthur’s close! Twenty miles is an easy ride, no matter the terrain. He’s half-tempted to burst out of his seat and ready his horse right now. Perhaps fortunately, he’s already feeling the effects of his two large tankards of mead and his hearty meal sits like a weight in his full belly. A night of rest, no matter how the anxiety of being so very close pricks at him, is for the best.

“Here you go,” the barman returns carrying a very familiar looking satchel.

Arthur’s heart clenches at the sight of it.

It’s Merlin’s. No mistaking it.

Arthur takes the bag almost reverently.

“Can I get you anything else?” the barman asks.

Distracted, Arthur shakes his head at first and just flicks a dismissive hand. “No, thank you.” Realizing he’s being impolite, he forces his gaze away from his hands, gathers up the bag and stands. “I think I’m going to retire for the night.” He gives a quick smile. “A long day in the saddle and that delicious food have done me in. Thank you again, for this,”–he hefts the satchel–“and for the information.”

The barman wishes him a pleasant evening and Arthur nods, then hurries up to his waiting room. There’s a flickering tallow candle on the night stand, and Arthur uses it to light the tapers in a standing candelabra in the corner of the room, so he can better see. He sits on the bed and studies the bag for just a moment. The leather is stained, worn almost through in places and some of the seams are torn or re-stitched, while the brass buckle is burnished dark with oil and use. But it’s still a piece of Merlin and Arthur feels a connection to him just holding it in his hands.

He works the strap from the buckle carefully, as there’s a rip in the loop that holds the metal on, and peels open the flap. The first item he draws out is a scrap of red cloth. Once again, Arthur’s breath catches and he feels that strange ache in his chest.

It’s one of Merlin’s neck scarfs.

Arthur gathers the material in his hands and holds it tight. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine a Merlin sans scarf, but just can’t visualize it.

Maybe Merlin has another? He’d always seemed to have a variety, generally in shades of red and blue. He’d been wearing a red one, during those last days that he tried so very hard to get Arthur to Avalon in time. He can’t help but wonder if it was this very cloth.

Feeling a bit foolish, Arthur brings the cloth to his nose and inhales. It’s mostly musty, like it was damp when it was packed away, but there’s a familiar spicy, herbalness to it that reminds him of the way that Gaius’ quarters always smelled. He knows he’s probably overreacting to such a simple thing – it’s a piece of cloth for goodness sake – but it’s the first substantial, physical evidence he’s had since he’s returned of Merlin being out there, somewhere.

It’s not easy to set the cloth aside, but the remaining contents of the satchel still wait.

The next item he draws out is another cloth – this one tatty and stained, likely torn from a tunic – that’s wrapped around a small object. Arthur carefully unwinds it, wary of what’s inside, and as the final coil of the thin strip of linen comes loose, a carved figure falls into his palm.

It’s a little wooden dragon.

It’s familiar; Arthur knows he’s seen it before. He sets the little dragon upright, balancing on the flat of his hand, and lifts it in front of his eyes to study.

Suddenly it comes to him: Balinor. He remembers seeing the man carving some sort of animal out of a chunk of lime wood. He’d glimpsed the finished product briefly and remembers rolling his eyes at what he assumed was a rather pointed message from the man. He’d no idea at the time that Merlin ended up with the little figure. He guessed it had been left with Balinor’s body…

Of course, knowing what he does now about Balinor, it only makes sense that he’d carved the dragon specifically for Merlin. The thought that Merlin hurried off without it, probably the only physical connection he’s ever had of his father, is both heartbreaking and alarming. What could’ve sent him off so sudden, that he’d leave something so precious behind?

Merlin _will_ have it back, he promises himself.

Arthur is careful, reverent, when he wraps the little figure up again.

The next item he takes from the satchel – an old book - doesn’t surprise him; the weight of the pack suggested it held such a thing. The tome is old; its’ binding a battered, scuffed leather with age-tarnished bronze corner protectors and clasps. There’s faded gilt along the spine, marks of some kind, but if there were ever a title noted there, it’s long since been worn away. Arthur knows, before he opens it, that it’s a book of magic. There’s something in the way it feels in his hands – like he’s holding a living thing – and perhaps he can sense it now because he’s alive at this moment only due to a spell.

He’s careful when he undoes the clasps – which are still holding firm, despite their age – and even more so when he turns back the cover and a thick section of pages. There are loose papers and random scraps of notes hastily jammed inside throughout, and between the pages that he opens to there’s a scrap of torn parchment with a smudged charcoal sketch of an unknown symbol. The language on these particular pages isn’t one that’s familiar to Arthur – clearly something archaic – but when he flips through further, he starts to recognize passages. Not that much of what they say makes sense…

“So, this is a sorcerer’s spell book,” he mutters peering at page after page of bird-foot scribbles of ink, and crude drawings of plants and the occasional brightly colored image of creatures he certainly hopes aren’t real. Every now and then he spots notes – on margins, or stray vellum and even a thin piece of cloth once - clearly penned by a later hand that he’s sure is familiar.

As Arthur closes the book – resealing the clasps just as gingerly as he’d opened them – he wonders how long Merlin had this in his possession. Is it something he got from Gaius? Or perhaps something that was given to him by his mother? Did he carry it to Camelot with him all those years ago, or is it something he acquired after he arrived, or even after Arthur was long gone? Closer to the former, Arthur suspects, judging by all the little personal edits and notations, which suggests he had it a good long while.

So, if this is something Merlin had in Camelot, how did he keep it hidden? His and Gaius’ chambers had been searched, on more than one occasion, for anything that might connect them to sorcery. Was it more magic? Or something ridiculously mundane (he can absolutely imagine that Merlin kept it hidden someplace rather obvious, like beneath his pillow or in his disorganized cupboard; messy as his room always seemed, it’s no wonder it was never spotted!)

Arthur can’t help but grin as he’s sets the book aside. It’s such a reminder of Merlin’s defiance and stubbornness. He misses that (well, misses Merlin) with an almost physical ache.

The next couple of things he pulls from the emptying satchel appear to be less personal, more prosaic: a pair of socks desperately in need of darning, a small utilitarian knife with a dulled blade, a piece of well-scraped flint, a wooden bowl and a tarnished silver spoon (that’s stamped with the Pendragon crest so obviously came from the Camelot kitchen some time ago).

There’s also another small cloth bundle wedged in the bottom that he takes out and unrolls. The cloth itself is a rather plain piece of linen, but it’s wrapped around a small lump of something hard and… furry. Arthur lifts it to eye-level while still on the cloth, a bit afraid to touch it. What if it’s some kind of weird sorcerous artifact? There’s a short length of braided cord connected to one end. He takes that in two fingers and lifts it up gingerly, watches the thing swing like a pendulum for a few moments before he realizes: it’s just a rabbit’s foot. It’s a bit mangy looking, with some of the hair rubbed off in patches, but nothing out of the ordinary. He’d known several Knights who carried similar tokens for luck.

Feeling a bit silly, Arthur shakes his head at himself as he rolls it back up in the cloth. “I wonder where you came from?” Again, he’s left wondering why this little item is so significant to Merlin he’d packed it up and has possibly been carrying it around for years.

That seems to empty the pack, but when Arthur lifts it up there’s still an incongruous weight pulling one corner down. He re-examines the inside, carefully feeling around the soft leather, and his fingers find and trace the outline of something flat and round beneath the lining.

“Ha,” he huffs triumphantly (albeit nearly under his breath). There’s a hidden inner pocket. It takes him a minute to work out how to access it – a small flap covering the slit of an opening – and he fishes inside.

Arthur knows what it is as soon as his fingers touch metal. It’s familiar in his hand as he works it carefully out of the little pocket, and he’s almost afraid to look when he finally gets it free.

His mother’s sigil.

Arthur sighs, heavily, and looks down at the circle of bronze with the dove cast in relief.

It’s been modified slightly, tied with a cord of thin lacing around it in such a way that it’s been made wearable, like a pendant, but it’s otherwise the same as the last time he laid eyes on it.

Arthur’s fingers close tight around the disc, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He has to take a deep breath, and when he finally exhales, it’s on a wavering, stuttering breath.

He’d given the sigil to Merlin just before they went off to face the duracha and he’d fully been expecting to sacrifice his life for the good of his kingdom. After… on the journey back to Camelot when all their hearts were heavy with the loss of one of their own, Merlin had tried to return it; but he’d insisted that Merlin keep it. It was important to him to know that the memory of his mother would live on beyond just him (in an odd way, Lancelot’s death had enforced that desire even further). And giving it to Merlin hadn’t felt like giving it up, but… just holding onto it in a different way.

He slips the cord around his neck and lets the weight of the sigil fall heavily against his breastbone. He lets it hang over his shirt for a few moments, but then tucks it beneath the collar to let the cold metal warm against his skin. It feels right keeping it so close to his heart. And, this, of all the pack’s contents, is the thing that sets him to worrying the most.

He doesn’t like to ascribe motivation to any of Merlin’s actions, or assume too much about his thoughts, but somehow, he just _knows_ that the sigil had been the most significant to him of everything he’d carried with him from his life at Camelot. Maybe it’s because he knows that whatever is going on with Merlin is to do with him? Arthur wouldn’t have been brought back by the druid’s spell otherwise, right? Hadn’t Iseldir implied as much? Even ignoring the gut-deep certainty, logic tells Arthur that Merlin kept something so personal of Arthur’s close, but carefully hidden away and protected, because it meant a great deal to him.

So, why did Merlin leave without it?

He wonders if there’s something the barman hadn’t told him? Was the threat from the villagers even stronger than he’d implied? He can’t imagine that Merlin – as powerful as he apparently is – could’ve been that threatened by a handful of farmers and half-starved peasants. But why else would Merlin have scarpered during the night, leaving what were clearly his most cherished possessions behind?

It’s a question Arthur can’t answer tonight. He repacks everything except the sigil into the satchel, using a ‘borrowed’ bed sheet (he’d paid enough for the room to cover the cost of a few linens) to add additional wrapping and padding to the contents. Obviously, it’s coming with him tomorrow and will be returned to Merlin’s hands if Arthur has anything to say about it.

The fatigue of a day in the saddle (not to mention the soporific of a full stomach and heady ale) coupled with the sheer emotional drain, convince Arthur that staying up any later will serve no good purpose. His wild speculation and escalating concern do their best to keep him awake, but eventually pure bone-deep exhaustion wins out.


	12. Chapter 12

His sleep is restless and his dreams that night are strange and full of weird images that chase themselves around his mind relentlessly. He dreams – over and over - of standing in a vast cavern at the feet of a massive white dragon. It speaks to him in a tongue he cannot understand. Then the dragon blurs and fades and there is Merlin standing before him… But he too speaks in that same dragon-voice, and when Arthur tries to reach out, to get closer, to touch him, he shimmers and fades to nothingness as well.

Arthur wakes disquieted, frustrated and bleary-eyed – like he’d gone without sleep – and there’s a long moment where he just lays in the lumpy, faintly musty bed and contemplates not getting up at all. But the sun is peeking through the window slats and across the room he can see Merlin’s satchel propped up against the wall, waiting expectantly. A thin band of light slowly crawls over the scuffed, ruddy leather as he watches; it reflects off the bronze buckle with a surprisingly bright little flare before inching its way over to illuminate the wall.

If Arthur were the type to believe in signs or portents, he might have to take that flash of gold as a rather heavy-handed one.

It’s enough to get him moving though.

He readies himself for travel, and when he makes his way down to the common room, the only occupant is a woman sitting at a table near the bar. She’s got a spread of various root vegetables in front of her and is making her way through them with quick hands and a large knife. She looks up when he steps off the creaky stairs, though her hands hardly slow in their rapid paring and peeling. “G’mornin’, dear.”

“Uh, morning,” Arthur greets her, feeling a bit off-step at her rather cheery salutation.

The woman nods her head at him. “Yer the gentleman who said such lovely things about my cooking,” she says. “Thought I’d take the chance to greet ye, first thing. Say my thanks, since I’m sure my Brolly didn’t say it proper.”

“Oh!” This must be the barman’s wife then. “Right, yes. Well, you’re welcome. It was truly delicious.” He forces a smile, the one that aims at charming, and hopes it lands somewhere close since he’s too exhausted to feel much of anything other than bone-tired.

“Aww, thank ya, dear.” She jerks her head kind of sideward, saying, “I’ve wrapped some provisions for ya, to take on the road, as my Brolly said you’d be heading on yer way come morn.”

There’s a bulging sack, tied off with a bit of rope, sitting atop the bar. He doesn’t have to feign appreciation at least. “That’s too kind,” he tells her, hefting what is clearly a significant amount of food. “I’ve more coin,” he hurries to say, because a few kind words about her cooking seem a bit short against this kind of generosity. He says as much.

“Nay,” she waves that off quite dismissively (and vigorously, a chunk of rutabaga goes sailing past his head and impacts the wall behind the bar with a rather loud _thunk_). “Brolly told me that ya paid him more than the room and meal were worth, and not to mention that ya let him keep the coin that were in that bag.” She points to Merlin’s pack which is hanging over one shoulder. “If anyone should feel cheated ‘round here, it’s you.”

Bolstered by the kindness, he’s genuine when he replies, “Well, if it’s as delicious as your cooking last night, I’ll consider us quite even.”

She’s a weathered woman of middle-years, dressed in drab-colored layers, but the smile pushing into her cheeks and delight in her eyes strips away the years and brightens her whole appearance. Arthur can suddenly imagine her as a young lass coyly drawing the attention of a rough-edged man like Brolly. “Well, it’s a shame you’ve got to be movin’ on, lad. Folks round here just don’t appreciate good cooking.” She winks and then lifts a hand to shoo him off. “Best get goin’, else I may try to tempt ya to stay with the promise of a savory venison pie and some gooseberry crumble.”

Arthur laughs softly. “I’d better go then, because that’s definitely tempting.” He offers her a bow and she just waves him off with a chuckle before turning her attention to a pair of impressively large carrots.

He exits the tavern into a morning that’s misty and grey, but there’s a warmth to the air that suggests the low fog will burn off as soon as the suns gained a bit more of the sky. It’s a bit reflective of his mood, he muses as he heads to the stable to ready the horses, that his own day had started rather gloomy, but then a few friendly words and moment of genuine kindness have already chased away much of his lingering malaise.

That discontent is lifted further when he enters the stable to find his horse saddled, and his pack animal loaded. The same stable boy from the night before is sitting on a rickety bench idly running a curry brush over Crowfoot’s neck. “What’s this then?” Arthur asks.

The boy jolts to his feet. “Oh, sir!” He hurries to gather the reins and hand them over. “Master Brolly said to have them ready for you!” He doesn’t seem to be able to speak in a tone or volume that’s anything less than exuberant. “And thank you, sir! For the coin, I mean, sir!”

Arthur lifts a brow, moving to the roan mare’s side to get his gear loaded and Merlin’s pack safely stowed. “Which coin was that?”

“Master Brolly let me keep one o’ the silvers you gave me, sir!” The boy is gushing; talking so fast and excitably that Arthur’s having a hard time following. “Usually I has to give them all over, y’see, an he shares a copper, or sometimes two if there’s extra work like muckin’ out shite; beggin’ your pardon, sir. But this time he says to me that I can keep one whole silver to meself!”

Unable to hold back a chuckle – the boy’s enthusiasm is really something – Arthur steps back to study the mounts rather showily. “What’s your name, young man?”

Frowning a bit nervously, the boy offers a tremulous, “Uh, Kenneth, if it please you, sir.”

“Well, Kenneth, these two look like they’ve been well-treated, and I’m pleased to see them saddled and ready, so I’d agree it was coin well-deserved.”

Kenneth blinks up at him.

“You did very good with them,” he adds. “A job well done. Even the groom in the Camelot stables couldn’t have done a finer job.”

Blushing and beginning to stammer again, Kenneth somehow manages to bite his tongue against further words when Arthur asks, “Could you hold the reins while I mount?” and merely nods eagerly instead.

Not that he needs the assistance, but Kenneth clearly wants to help in any way he can. Arthur gets his pack and Merlin’s secured with his bedroll and then swings into the saddle. The boy goes so far as to guide both horses to the street and then hands over the guideline for the packhorse and waits until Arthur’s got it secured to his saddle before handing up Arthur’s reins.

“There you are, sir.”

“Many thanks, Kenneth. If I should pass through this way again, I will be sure to stay at Brolly’s inn and avail myself of your services again.”

Flushed bright pink, Kenneth bobs his head vigorously.

Arthur smiles and then clucks his tongue, urging his horse into a walk. They’ve only gone a few paces down the central (and only) road through the town when he hears Kenneth call out. He peers over his shoulder at the boy.

“Sir!” Kenneth is jogging forward to catch him up. “It’s the Cunning Greyling. The name of the inn!”

Arthur waves a hand in thanks. He glances back at the Inn, seeing the sign board hanging over the entrance that he’d missed in the dark the night before.

Painted in bright colors is a clever image of a large fish balancing on its tail on stylized waves, just out of reach of a net. It makes Arthur chuff out a softly amused breath as he taps his heels into the horse’s barrel, encouraging a trot, and they leave the town behind.

His mood stays ebullient as he guides his horse down the westerly path where the road out of the town forks. From the condition of that arm of the trail (much more overgrown than the one heading east), Brolly was right about there being very little travel in that direction. Still, a bit of overgrowth on the road notwithstanding, it’s promising to be a warm morning, and the clouds that plagued him the last two days have moved on.

He keeps Crowfoot at an easy lope, not wanting to push him – or Bertie, the pack horse – too early in the day. There’s a niggling thought at the back of his mind that he should be thinking more of his task, and perhaps worrying at those troubling dreams, but Arthur carefully keeps those thoughts pushed aside. He lets his mind and his eyes linger instead on the countryside. The steadily passing scenery – mostly gorse and thickets and slender elms, though he spots the occasional farmstead and stubborn crop fields – are a pleasant and lulling distraction from too heavy thoughts.

About three leagues or so from the town the forest masses once again, and it’s not too long later that Arthur finds himself riding through close growing boles of old-growth, heavily-crowned trees. Though the sunlight struggles to make its way through the dense canopy, it filters through the leaves enough to scatter the gloom into a myriad of green-gold shaded dapples. There’s enough chill in the air to ward off the heat of the afternoon, though Arthur knows it will get cool, even cold, as soon as the sun is down. The trail is even thinner here, overrun by greenery and grasses that stand tall enough to brush his boot-tips, and he’s forced to slow his mount to a steady, plodding walk.

It’s peaceful at least, and quiet. With less to distract him – there really isn’t much unchanging in the surrounding green – Arthur’s mind wanders again to Merlin. He wonders how, in the midst of all this, he’s going to find him. Brolly had said there were mountains further west, and caverns. It seems an impossibility to think that he’ll be able to find one lone man out here.

Of course, he’s become quite certain he doesn’t have to necessarily find _Merlin_ first. While he can’t be wholly sure it will work, he plans on tracking down Aithusa in the hopes that the dragon will lead him to Merlin. He has the strongest feeling that where he finds one he’ll find the other (though he refuses to lend any credence to his dreams for that surety).

And how hard could it be to find a beast that large?

Remembering suddenly that there’d been a dragon held captive under Camelot for a score of years – one that had gone undetected by the denizens of the kingdom that whole time – Arthur’s confidence flags just a trifle.

He spends the next several hours contemplating how best to track a dragon.

While the sky – and therefore the progress of the sun – is mostly blocked from view, except in little glimpses through wind-rustled leaves, Arthur guesses that his eventual stop by a burbling stream is close enough to mid-day as to make no mind. He’s relying more on the rumbling of his stomach than any sense of the actual time.

He partially untacks the horses and ties them near the stream to let them drink and graze, and then rinses and fills his waterskin from the fresh, cold-running water.

“Good a spot as any for lunch,” he mutters, mostly to himself. And it’s more than that even; it’s quite unexpectedly nice. There’s a moss-covered fallen log right on the stream’s edge that provides a handy back support and the carpet of litterfall and loam beneath him is especially thick and spongy. Amused, he wonders if it was actually hunger that drew him to taking this break, or perhaps just passing by this idyllic little verge enticed him.

Weirdly comfortable, Arthur examines the contents of the sack provided by Brolly’s wife (he wishes he’d thought to ask her name), finding two greasy meat pies, thick crusted bread, two apples, hard yellow cheese, and – to his vast appreciation – half a dozen fruit-filled pastries. Saving the bread and cheese with the hopes that he’ll find some game to accompany it for dinner, he eats the meat pies and half of the pastries and finds himself licking grease and flaky crumbs off his fingers afterwards.

Luckily there’s no one around to witness this except the horses. As they’re his only companions, Arthur only feels a bit foolish when he continues talking aloud to them. “It’s a bit out of the way, but I’d like to remember to have something sent to Brolly’s wife in thanks for her kindness. Look, she’s thought of you as well.” He takes up the apples, halves them with his dagger and starts to stand to share them between the two.

It takes him much longer than it should to gain his feet; it feels as though there’s some great weight holding him down. “Perhaps I enjoyed that meal a bit more than I should’ve?” he jests, levering himself upright with the help of the mossy log.

The horses too appear to be enjoying their fresh, lush fodder with unexpected devotion; they need to be cajoled into taking the sectioned apples from his palms.

“A few minutes more,” he tells them, patting Crowfoot’s grey dappled withers and scratching at Bertie’s crest while they placidly munch their spoils and then return to their fervent grazing.

Arthur knows he shouldn’t linger, can feel the urgency still driving him, but there’s something about this land and these woods. Everything is so green, and peaceful and full of life. It’s like a peculiar lassitude has overcome him. Even as he moves towards his saddle, intent on tightening the girth back around Crowfoot’s belly, something stays his actions.

He remembers, suddenly and with a shake of his head, a conversation he’d had with Merlin once, seated around a campfire in verdant, lush woods much like these. Merlin had spoken so… reverently about the land and the trees and the life of everything around.

Arthur’d thought it a bit odd at the time, perhaps didn’t quite understand it, but he’d like hearing Merlin talk like that. There’d been an ageless wisdom to Merlin at times – which of course, makes sense now – that Arthur had found both intriguing and infuriating.

Again, he’s struck by the thought: how could Merlin’s magic have come as such a surprise? He’d all but admitted it so many times.

Arthur feels a bit daft for being so oblivious for so long. “Then again,” he tells himself, once again voicing the thoughts to the air and the forest around him and the indifferent horses. “Perhaps I didn’t _want_ to see it.”

And that’s more thinking than Arthur wants to do right now. Everything to do with Merlin seems to be a looming question in his mind, and he’ll not get any of the answers he seeks until he finds him. “All right, time to be off.”

But even after the words leave his tongue, Arthur still can’t quite bring himself to get moving. He’s no closer to reaching for the saddle than he was a few minutes before.

It’s just so damn inviting here.

His gaze flicks towards that particularly tempting hummock of grass next to the stump. A stray thought comes to him: that would be the perfect spot for a bit of a nap.

He takes a step toward it. Then another.

“Wait.” He’s got no time for a nap. Merlin is waiting. He needs to find Merlin. He repeats that to himself in a firm whisper. “Merlin is waiting. I have to find Merlin.”

It’s like there’s something warring within him. The driving urgency to find Merlin is battling… well, Arthur’s not sure what it is, but when he blinks and finds himself even closer to the stream, and further from the animals, a frisson of fear manages to work itself into the seams of whatever cloak of tranquility that’s wrapped itself about him.

“Merlin is waiting,” he says again, firmly and aloud, like the mantra will be enough to see his actions through. And repeating it under his breath _is_ enough to get him turned back in the right direction, and get his hands moving to tug a cinch tighter and settle a bit and browband back into place.

Even the horses seem reluctant after he gets their tack resettled and heaves himself back into the saddle. Crowfoot beneath him is fractious, tossing his head and stamping fitfully when Arthur tries to rein him back onto the path, while the pack horse keeps pulling at his lead and trying to wander back to graze at the edge of the water. It takes a firmer press of his heels than Arthur prefers to use, and a steady tongue-clucking to urge the animals away from the little … well, looking back at it when they’re finally moving again, Arthur guesses he’d describe the area as a grove.

A lovely, sunlit grove that really does look so inviting…

He shakes his head, clearing cobwebs, and forces his gaze forward to concentrate on keeping the recalcitrant horses moving in the right direction.

But even when he’s put a score of yards distance, when he can feel that connection pulling, growing taut and… finally starting to sever, he’s still drawn to look back one last time.

And he shudders.

It’s as if whatever sunlight that had seemed to brighten the area in its golden glow has suddenly been dimmed. The new shadows hold a sinister edge and suddenly some of those rills and rolls in the over-thick, too-green grass along the stream-bank take oddly familiar shapes. He doubts, quite sincerely, that there are actual corpses buried beneath, but wouldn’t risk tearing through the greenery or digging through damp earth to find out.

Kicking harder at the horse’s barrel, Arthur wrenches his eyes forward and tries very hard to ignore the chill that runs down his spine. Whatever warmth and invitation that had filled him has been chased away by a pervading sense of gloom that leaves gooseflesh in its wake. The horses, too, seem suddenly free of whatever spell that had held them, willing to canter now – perhaps a bit too eagerly – and Arthur finds himself ducking low-hanging branches and hugging close to Crowfoot’s neck as they risk a bit of speed to put that disturbing place far behind.

Nearly braining himself on one of those low-slung branches is what finally prompts Arthur to slow their risky pace. That heavy feeling… the unnatural lassitude – is gone from his body, subsumed by a tension born of some innate fight-or-flee instinct.

“What the hell was that?” he says quite rhetorically, since there’s no one around who could answer him even if there was an answer to be found. Crowfoot’s immediate snort-head toss combination – as if in response – are their own kind of agreement and Arthur barely refrains from blowing out a noisy sound from his nostrils to echo his mount.

He’s sure of one thing: it was magic of some sort. And it would certainly explain why Brolly had said that there have been a few travelers in the last months who’d spoken of strangeness in these woods.

Is it something that’s always existed, or perhaps some kind of trap that Merlin deliberately set to keep folk from wandering too close?

He doesn’t like to imagine it’s the latter. The place was just so… insidious, and somehow inexplicably aware. And he cannot – _refuses_ to - imagine magic like that coming from Merlin deliberately. As to the former, well… Brolly had said there were occasional fishermen or trappers who’d come this way even as recently as a few weeks ago. Though there’d been an ancient sort of presence in the grove, Arthur doesn’t think it’s been there all that long.

But what if it’s not deliberate? What if it’s the effect Merlin is having on the very earth itself? He shudders to think about more and more areas like that appearing as a result if he doesn’t ‘fix’ whatever’s going on. He won’t even let himself think about what else such a twisted and powerful magic could bring forth.

That thought prompts another: he’s been considering this task from purely a personal perspective. Yes, he’s been brought back from the dead to find and aid Merlin, and there’s a good reason for that, but his motivation has been wholly selfish, hasn’t it? He’s not doing it to ‘fix the essence of magic’. That may be the outcome should he succeed, but he’s looking for Merlin, wants to help Merlin because, he’s Merlin. And Arthur cannot stand the thought that his dying set Merlin on this path of self-imposed exile.

So perhaps he should start thinking about the larger picture? He really does have a responsibility to Camelot and all the surrounding Kingdoms, doesn’t he? If he fails in this quest, what might that mean for the world and for magic? Will places like that malevolent grove become commonplace? Will the very earth rebel against its denizens?

Suddenly the weight of all of this seems very heavy indeed. Still, he finds it hard to focus on anything other than Merlin.

He continues following the westward trail.

Arthur considers himself quite fortunate that the remainder of the afternoon passes with no other troubling or puzzling incidents or hints of nefarious magic. It’s perhaps early when he decides to stop and make camp, but from the way the forest is growing dimmer with each passing yard, he knows that if he wants to avoid having to set-up wholly in the dark he’d best break early.

He scouts a suitable clearing –this one gives him no unsettling feelings: good, bad or otherwise – some yards off the trail and deeper into the thick of the woods. The open area, roughly six or seven paces across is mostly free of trees and large enough that he can keep the horses within sight, and still have enough room for a fire. A weedy, moss-covered circle of stones tells him he’s not the first person to use this space as a campsite, though it’s obviously not been occupied in some time judging by the overgrowth.

He pickets the mounts hastily – for now – and takes up his crossbow. Dusk is often a good time to scare up game and he’d like to try to get a bit of hunting in before full dark. He heads deeper into the woods, marking trees with little cuts from his knife as he goes; he’d feel silly to lose his way back in the night. Fortunately, that odd sense of foreboding that held sway earlier hasn’t spread this far and this part of the forest is teeming with life. There’s a plethora of bird noise and the sound of wind rustling through the trees and plenty of signs of game.

He’s hoping to find a few pheasant, or perhaps some grouse, or even – if he’s very lucky – a small boar; something that will sustain him more than just one meal. To his delight, he startles a young buck at a stream not even a half a mile from his camp.

He fires his shot just as the deer turns to bound away.

One well-placed bolt from his crossbow catches it in the ribs, just behind the foreleg, dropping it instantly.

Arthur’s starting to think his luck is turning. He’s got fresh meat to go with the remaining trail food, and he’s close enough to a river that he’s got fresh water and can skin and gut his kill without worrying about attracting scavengers too close.

With a bit of urgency, he dresses out the dear, cutting the loins as well as both shanks for cooking over his fire. He also portions some for salt-curing, as there’s a small cask for just that purpose on the pack horse and slices the remainder into strips for drying. It’s not as neat or efficient as it could be – nor is there time to properly make use of the entire animal – but he does the best he can in the deepening twilight.

The trail he’d left himself is well-marked and he makes his way back to camp easily; which is a very good thing, as he’s not only got the deer meat to haul, but water for the mounts as well. He’d rather not trudge through the woods bearing the weight of all that any longer than he has to.

There’s just enough light left to get his fire burning and the selected meat spitted and roasting. While the venison cooks, he properly beds down the horses and gives them a good once over: currying coats, picking hooves and checking for hot-spots on their legs. It’s evident they were well-cared for the night before at Brolly’s Inn, but he does his best for them all the same. Thankfully, they seem no worse for the wear after the experience in the clearing and their mad dash through the trees after.

Scratching Crowfoot on the withers he tells the animals, “Been quite the day for us, hasn’t it? I’ll find you both more apples, soon. I promise.” He gives Bertie a quick rub between the nostrils as well.

Apparently, he can’t blame the odd magic of the grove for his sudden propensity to talk aloud to the horses…

With the fire casting plenty of light to work by, he seasons and salts and then skewers the thin strips of venison he’d cut, readying them to be hung later over his banked fire to speed their drying. The preparation takes long enough that by the time that’s done there’s enough venison cooked that he can eat. Careful not to burn his fingers, he slices off several generous portions from a sizzling, spitting haunch and he sits down on his bedroll with a platter of steaming meat, along with the leftover cheese and bread. Though the venison probably could’ve done with a bit more seasoning, it’s more than enough for a hearty meal.

Finishing off the leftover tarts from Brolly’s wife leaves him a bit overfull, though, and he groans and lets out a rather loud belch. One of the horses’ whickers and Arthur laughs softly. “You too, eh?” He loosens his belt and chuckles once again as he realizes there’s a not-quite-centered hole in the leather – the loosest notch - and he remembers Merlin having to add that for him; a result of a brief time when feasts and royal meals started to overtake his training regimen.

“C’mon,” he goads himself, fighting the heaviness of a full belly and the urge to just drowse next to the fire. There are still things to do before he can sleep. Without knowing exactly how much travelling yet remains, he needs to be well-rested for whatever tomorrow brings, and he wants to get an early night.

There’s something, some voice in his head or feeling in his gut, that tells him he’s close now. That Merlin cannot be too far.

He banks the fire, staking the skewered venison around it to catch the heat and the smoke, and carves out the rest of the cooked meat for an easy cold breakfast, leaving the remaining haunch over the fire as well. He inspects the horses one last time, spending a few minutes with each, and double-checks they’re secure in their pickets.

It’s odd, but beneath that urgency to go, to find Merlin, is another strange feeling of something like…anxiety or dread. He can’t pinpoint the cause – the night is quiet, but calm, the horses dozing, and the weather still – but it leaves him as much restless as exhausted. He wants to sleep… needs to, but there’s a reluctance there as well when he finally settles himself on the lumpy bedroll. He closes his eyes but finds himself startling awake each time he starts to doze, and it takes him far longer than it should to finally fall into semi-restful slumber. As he does, whether he’s lost in some half-remembered memory or already falling into dreams, he mutters a soft, “Goodnight, Merlin.”


	13. Chapter 13

Hours later, as Arthur tosses restlessly beneath his borrowed cloak, something cracks near the clearing.

It’s enough to draw him fully awake. He peeks his eyes open, just to the barest slits; seeing only darkness pin-pricked by starlight twinkling beyond the trees as well as the faint orange glow of his fires’ embers, he listens carefully. For a long moment there’s nothing but the soft rustle of leaves stirred by night breezes above the low, reedy sound of his own breathing.

Then one of the horses’ whinnies. It’s a not a drowsy whicker, but a restless, nervous sound.

He stays still, though he tenses muscles in anticipation. His sword is laid on the ground an arm’s length away, and his fingers flex with the expectation of grabbing it up. What kind of enemy awaits is still unknown, but he always feels better with a sword in hand.

For a long while, he hears nothing beyond the normal noises of a forest at night. Then it comes again: the snap of a twig, followed by an incongruous rustle, like brush being pushed aside. There’s an echoing whisper of leaf-on-leaf from a different quarter. Again, one of the horse shifts restively; Arthur can hear the faint ‘thwap, thwap’ of tails hairs slapping against a flank.

Slowly he edges an arm out from under the cloak, inching it across the ground towards the hilt of his weapon. He gets his fingers hooked around the crosspiece and tugs it fully into his hand. As soon as his grip tightens around the hilt, Arthur whips off the cloak, rolls to his feet and comes up readied just as two men charge into the clearing. One rushes from his left, the other his right, and they’re both armed.

They stumble and stutter to a halt, though, as if they didn’t expect Arthur to react so quickly. Arthur levers his sword in front of him at a guard position, shifting his gaze between them. “Who’re you? What do you want?” he barks out.

Even just by the palest moonlight streaming through the trees and the banked embers of his fire throwing very little in the way of light, he can see them exchange a cagey look. The left man, wielding an ugly looking cudgel shifts back a step, while the one to the right – a mid-sized hand-axe held across his chest – seems to be trying to urge the other forward with a curt little nod.

Cudgel-man spreads his hands, “Woah, there, sir. We don’t mean no trouble.” He sounds genial, almost apologetic. “Truly, we mean no harm to yeh.”

Arthur doesn’t roll his eyes, though he does square his stance just a bit. “Well I’m sure you can understand how I might assume otherwise.” He smirks.

“Oh, aye,” Axe-man agrees, nodding. “I can see where such an assumption might come from.” He gestures toward Arthur with the head of the axe. “Here you are, all alone. In these here distant woods. Middle o’ the night. Couple of horses.” He shrugs. “Could’ve been two of you, I suppose, but only one asleep by the fire.”

Arthur knows he can’t bluff his way out of this. They came upon him by chance, or perhaps they followed him, he doesn’t know. Either it’s just dumb luck in camping where he did – perhaps it’s a spot they haunt regularly for lone travelers – or they came aware of him some time ago and have been trailing him, waiting for him to sleep so they might sneak up on him unawares. Neither bodes well.

As his eyes adapt to the dark he can make out more of their features. Their rough homespun clothing is tattered and dirty, and their patchwork armor pieced together from random scraps of chain and leather. They’re clearly little more than brigands or bandits. And poorly accoutered ones at that.

“So, if it’s not trouble you wanted, what is it that I can do for you?”

The first one to speak, cudgel-man, gestures the weapon toward the fire. “Oh, we just thought we’d come and share a bit of warmth is all. Bit of a chill in the air, ain’t there? Could be frost on the morrow.”

“Just the warmth of my fire? Is that all?” Arthur asks. He doubts they can see it, but he lifts a brow sardonically.

“Oh, of course,” Axe-man agrees with a ridiculously insincere smile. “After all, what else would two men such as us be doin’ in the woods this night? Just poor lost travelers ain’t we Gregor?”

Arthur sees Axe-man shoot a look at Cudgel – apparently called Gregor – and realizes they’re stalling. He keeps his eyes on them, but listens intently again, focusing his attention outward for a moment. If he weren’t searching it out, he’d have missed the soft rustle of boots shifting through leaf-litter. It’s coming from somewhere behind him.

So, there’s a third. Damn.

They’re not the worst odds he’s faced, but it’s dark and he can’t be sure what the third man will bring to this exchange. Hopefully he’s not got a crossbow or any distance weapon that will shift the odds even further.

He’s missed something that Gregor said in response to Axe-man’s query but knows it’s not important.

“Well,” he tells them, still aiming for that same conversational tone. “By all means, then. You and your friends are welcome to share the warmth of my fire.” He goes so far as to wave a hand toward the coals.

Axe-man isn’t stupid. He didn’t miss that Arthur spoke of his friends, in the plural. He frowns, and his fingers go tighter around the handle of his weapon.

“Why not ask your other friend to join us?” Arthur adds. “No sense anyone staying out in the cold.”

“Your invitation is appreciated, stranger.” The third man walks slowly out of the trees and close enough to the small circle of firelight that his sword is visible.

Arthur’s heart sinks. They’ve positioned themselves strategically enough that he can tell that they’re experienced fighting together. He’s good, he’s not bragging to think that about himself, but he also knows his limitations. This is not going to end well for him. He steps back a pace, nearer the fire. At least it will act as something of a barrier.

“I’ve some venison drying, and there’s a freshly cooked shank still on the spit. You’re welcome to it.” Maybe he can negotiate his way out of this? Perhaps they’ll leave if he hands over some gold. Though, he already knows they’ll want more than that. The horses at least, his sword, likely all his supplies… He’s _not_ parting with Merlin’s pack. He’ll fight all three of them for it.

Third man circles him slightly, blade held in a practiced guard stance that tells Arthur’s he’s not just wielding the weapon for show; he knows how to use it. “We thank you for your generosity.”

Taking a risk, Arthur lets his sword lower, tip scraping the ground near the stones circling the firepit. “I think it’s rather obvious I’ve no choice in the matter. So, let’s speak plainly. What is it you want?”

Both Gregor and Axe-man defer to the third, who is apparently their leader. “Frank speech. Must say, I approve, stranger.” The Leader echoes Arthur and lets his stance relax, though not quite so much. He can still quickly bring the blade into play. The man eyes Arthur in such a way that it makes a shudder of revulsion run down his spine.

“Ain’t you a bit of a dandy though? I have to wonder what it is brings a pretty fellow like you out here?” He exchanges a brief leer with the others. “Ain’t he a pretty one, eh, Gregor?”

Gregor nods, his ugly grin showing a mouth lacking several teeth. “Aye, quite fair he is, Rob. Not the type we usually get through these parts. Almost as pretty as a lady.”

Axe-man grunts his agreement. “Been a long time since we seen a lady.”

“Aye it has,” Rob agrees, and his grin is as cruel and merciless as the rest of them.

Upper lip curling away from his teeth, Arthur’s tries to ignore their unsavory implications and says again, “What is it you want?”

The Leader, clearly called Rob, gives a lazy shrug. “Well now. I was thinking we’d maybe just share some of that meat you got cookin’. Maybe talk about that extra horse of yours. P’rhaps see what else you might have to spare.” He licks his lips. “Maybe see what else you’d be willing to bargain with.” He spreads hands like this is just a casual encounter at the market, though the cocksure angle of his sword doesn’t waver. “You just tell your fellow in the trees to join us, and I’m sure we can come to a satisfactory conclusion.”

Arthur frowns. Fellow in the trees? What is he talking about?

Unsure what the man is playing at, Arthur assumes sticking close to the truth is his safest bet for the moment. “There’s no one else. It’s just me.”

“You’ve a second horse,” Rob points out.

“Just a pack animal.”

Axe-man grunts and Rob glowers. “You know, stranger, I’d buy that excuse were it not for the figure in the hood who skulked away from the verges of your camp when I approached.”

Figure in a hood? Near the edge of camp?

Arthur’s heart, which had already been thumping with the adrenaline of the inevitable combat, lurches painfully in his chest.

_Merlin_

It’s got to be Merlin. It’s just _got_ to be.

Suddenly these three idiots are no more than a distraction… meaningless and something to be gotten rid of as quickly as possible. “Perhaps I do have a friend,” Arthur says suddenly, grinning wide. “And I warn you right now, it’ll be best for all of you to be on your way.”

They laugh, heartily, and Rob’s sword comes up again. “This would’ve been lots easier on you both, stranger, if you’d just cooperated.”

Grin turning to a growl, Arthur doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he flicks the tips of his sword through the remains of his fire, spraying the glowing cinders in an arc toward Gregor and Axe-man. He hears them both shout, but they’re put-aside immediately after. He’s swings his blade around to parry Rob’s attack.

Blade clashes against blade, and Arthur was right: Rob knows how to fight. But he’s not at Arthur’s caliber. They exchange a quick flurry of blows, and just a few moves in, Arthur’s got the edge. Before he can take advantage, however, Axe-man joins the fight. Arthur is forced to go from his brief stint at offense to a rather animated defense. The two have clearly fought together, but Axe-man’s weapon of choice doesn’t marry well with Rob’s sword, and Arthur finds that he can play the two against each other. Axe-man curses and shakes out a hand when his low strike at Arthur’s momentarily exposed flank interferes with Rob’s thrust and their weapons collide noisily.

Of course, that’s when Gregor finally joins the fight. He’s swinging his cudgel rather wildly and though Arthur only gets a glimpse – he’s too busy ducking, parrying and dancing backwards – it looks as if he caught some of the blistering cherry embers across the eyes.

Even then, the battle might’ve gone his way; except right as he lunges to stab beneath Axe-man’s guard with a move that should gut him, _something_ in the woods – just at the edge of the firelight – catches his attention.

There’s a shape there: a figure, black against a paler blackness of tree-shadow.

“Merlin?” he breathes.

It’s enough of a distraction that his lunge goes wide, glances off of Axe-man’s leather jerkin and he stumbles too close to the bandits; before he can recover, Rob catches him across the temple with an elbow.

Head rocking hard to the side from the blow and stumbling back, Arthur spies a flash in the distance and for a moment he thinks it’s from the knock to the head – the kind of lights that dance behind the eyes when struck – but then the flash brightens, separates as he tries to focus and becomes a pair of glowing eyes.

_Merlin_, he thinks again, desperately even has his head begins to throb and his vision starts to spin.

“Got you now, pretty man,” Rob grunts out with a wicked laugh as he advances on Arthur with his sword raised. Then… suddenly, the cruel, lecherous sound of it cuts short with an odd sort of gasping gurgle and Rob is yanked backwards.

Arthur watches blearily as Rob is flung back across the open camp, hurtling through the air at an impossible speed until he collides with the bare trunk of a large tree. His impact makes a sickening sort of thump-crack, and after a moment his body slides slowly down, landing in a boneless, lifeless slump at its roots.

Gregor and Axe-man both turn to face the new threat, Arthur apparently forgotten. “Rob! He’s killed Rob!” one of them calls out, though Arthur’s head is still ringing, and he can’t tell which one makes the startled accusation.

“It’s just one man,” the other urges, and it sounds like Gregor. “Get ‘im.” But despite the growled-out instruction, neither man moves from their wary stance.

Before Arthur can turn that to his advantage – he’s still dizzy and seeing-double but he’s fought under worse conditions before – first Axe-man, and then Gregor each go flying through the air in different directions, as if yanked by invisible hands.

Arthur doesn’t watch either of them (though hears their screams and the rather horrific sounds of their landings); instead, he fixes his gaze on that spot in the woods – on that golden glow. Though the figure is a blur through his somewhat addled, watery vision, and a hood keeps much of the face in shadow, the light of those illuminated eyes casts enough detail across a nose and cheekbones and a mouth that Arthur recognizes them. He’d know that face anywhere.

“Merlin,” he breathes out. Then repeats it, louder. “Merlin!”

There’s a moment – less than a heartbeat – where Arthur is sure those eyes fix on him… and then in a blink the eyes go dark and the figure – Merlin, he’s _sure_ of it! – vanishes into the woods.

“Merlin! No!” Arthur lurches after him, crossing the clearing in a few long strides. He curses under his breath as he veers dizzily sideward and careens into a tree – he’s still off-kilter from that blow to the head – bouncing off it with his shoulder. Still he pushes on gamely, pelting as fast as he can manage, headlong into the woods. His night vision is practically ruined as he’s still seeing the after-image of two yellow-gold eyes, and he has no idea which way Merlin ran, but he can’t give up now!

Merlin is so close!

He hollers Merlin’s name over and over, even as he crashes clumsily through trees and brush and scrapes his hands, and once his face, against rough bark and grasping twigs and thorns. He casts his gaze desperately through the darkened boles, hoping for some glimpse of movement, or some sign of Merlin’s passing.

Eventually, Arthur stumbles to a halt, panting and feeling nausea roll over him like a wave. He doubles-over, managing to grasp a thin sapling for support, and retches violently. He stays like that, clutching desperately to the tree to keep from toppling, other elbow on his bent knee, alternating between heaving gasps and spitting bile until he gets his breath back.

“God, Merlin. Where are you?” His voice his hoarse, throat raw, the words little more than a plaintive whisper. He’s weary and furious with himself for his foolishness. He has no idea where he is in the woods, nor how far from his camp he’s gotten in his desperate flight. He looks up to the canopy, feeling his neck ache with the strain, but can’t make out the position of the moon or the stars through the too-heavy leaf-cover.

He can’t do this.

He can’t chase a shadow in the dark. He’s got no idea which way Merlin went, and he’s heard no footfalls or rustling of leaves that give him any hope that he’s even on Merlin’s trail at all. Much as he wants to keep going, to keep searching for Merlin through the night until he can track him down and grasp him by the shoulders and shake him and ask him, “Why? Why did you run from me?” he knows he can’t. Not now.

Arthur reluctantly admits to himself that he needs to go back to his camp – if he can manage to find his way back – and regroup. He’s obviously close to Merlin but finding him tonight will be impossible. Plus, he’s injured (there’s a lump on his forehead that aches when he prods at it with two fingertips) and clearly shouldn’t continue wandering around in the dark in this state. With his luck, he’ll end up wandering all the way back to that soul-eating grove!

At least his vision has finally adapted and when he starts back in the direction he’d come from (hopefully) he can see well-enough to avoid the reaching branches and tangling brush. His head throbs, though, and he’s bruised and scraped and both his back and stomach muscles ache from the careless running not to mention the vomiting. He doesn’t know how long he chased… he can’t even say for certain it was Merlin, the spectre of Merlin then… A quarter of an hour? A half?

All the while he slowly backtracks his foolish and thoughtless dash through the woods, Arthur forces back the questions that plague him. Was that really Merlin? Why did he run? How long has he been following Arthur? Will he come back? Where has he gone to? They spin and churn in his head and make his chest tight and the pain in his head starts to throb with every pulse-beat.

He’s been wandering in a direction that he vaguely hopes is close to the right way, searching eagerly through the dark woods for even a glimpse of lingering light from his campfire, or perhaps a whiff of smoke, for over an hour when a soft sound catches his ear.

It’s the faint, restless whicker of a horse, he’s certain.

Trusting there are no more bandits (and feeling quite foolish at the same time) Arthur calls out urgently, “Coalfoot! Bertie! Ho there, fellas!” It’s rather desperate, but if he’s lucky one of the animals might respond to their name.

He gets lucky.

There’s another neigh, this one louder, more strident than the first, and it’s enough that Arthur can use it to pinpoint his destination.

He breaks through the trees only a few minutes later, nearly stumbling into the clearing where his fire is little more than embers, and his bedroll is kicked askew. One of the horses’ snorts and stamps nervously and Arthur crosses over to them, ignoring the dead bodies strewn about the camp like the points of some macabre triangle. At least for now.

“Woah there, Coalfoot,” he croons to the prancing grey.

The combat and Arthur’s subsequent flight must’ve made them both quite nervous. He gets a hand on Coalfoot’s lead, and gently guides his head down so he can stroke the gelding’s velvety nostrils and scratch the curve of his broad cheek. “There’s a good lad. It’s all settled now.” He reaches over to give Bertie a gentle rub with his knuckles over the wide stripe that runs between his eyes, ruffing up the roan’s forelock. “You too, Bertie. There’ll be apples for the both of you tomorrow, even if I have to grow them myself.”

Once the horses are calmed, he checks their tethers (Coalfoot nearly pulled himself free, which Arthur quickly rights, retying the slip knot a bit tighter) and then turns to the campsite. He obviously can’t return to sleep with the bandit corpses so close. Though he groans his way through each one – and his headache gets even worse – he manages to drag each of the dead men a goodly distance away from his camp. The last thing he needs is them attracting scavengers who might take an interest in Arthur’s game.

And thinking of that, Arthur returns to the fire.

Things aren’t quite as bad as he’d feared. While he’d knocked his spitted haunch and almost all the skewered strips of venison askew with that little scoop of his sword-tip, luckily most of it doesn’t look all that worse for the wear. After stirring up the embers with a branch to keep them glowing and hot through what remains of the night, he does his best to shake of any detritus and resets the skewers of meat and the spit-stand. He can pick off what remains of any clinging leaves and debris once it’s light.

A sharp pang in his stomach reminds him that he’d lost most of what he’d eaten for dinner after his reckless charge… but he decides against trying to eat anything more. His head is still a bit woozy and the throb of pain radiates across his temple from somewhere behind his eyes. The last thing he wants to do is end up vomiting again; he’s sure his head couldn’t take it.

He does track down his waterskin though, using it first to rinse his mouth thoroughly and then gulping down enough water that he can feel it sloshing in his belly when he lets the empty skin drop.

“I’ll probably regret that,” he mutters, but the cool water does help settle the unsteady feeling in his belly at least.

Though he just wants to collapse – exhaustion and pain warring with each other as to which is affecting him more severely – he levers himself to his bedroll quite gingerly. The thin padding does very little to soften the ground and he swears he can feel every single stone and stick and hard clot of dirt digging into him as he tries to get comfortable. He tugs the cloak over himself and rolls to his side. Then groans and rolls again, shifting his shoulders to settle on his back in a position that doesn’t exacerbate the steady throbbing in his skull.

“This is ridiculous,” he complains after a few more minutes of restive shifting. “I’ve slept on the ground hundreds of times.”

It’s not _really_ the bumpy ground, he knows, or even the headache – terrible as it may be – but the fact that every time he tries to close his eyes he sees that figure, just in shadow. He knows it’s Merlin, that he’s out there somewhere, so close! How can he rest, being so close?

“You _have_ to rest,” he chides himself. “You need to sleep. You’re in no shape to go bumbling through the woods in the midst of the night.” Then he snorts and adds, “Well, again.”

It should probably feel strange having this one-sided conversation aloud, but in Arthur’s mind he’s not alone. For all that he knows, Merlin could be just out of sight again, lurking in the darkness. “What the hell,” he says with a wry sort of huff. “If you’re out there, and can hear me… well, there’s no harm thinking out loud is there? I hope you can. Hear me, I mean.”

Though he’s expecting no answer, he still goes quiet for a few seconds as if allowing time for a response. Of course, there isn’t one.

“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Merlin,” Arthur confesses to the dark. “Find you and fix you, Gaius said. Hell, even that druid, Iseldir, could tell me no more than that. I like to think I’m getting a bit closer on the finding part.” His little chuckle is dry and half-mocking. “Well somewhat. If I survive the finding.” He sighs then, heavily and once again shifts to try to ease some of the discomfort.

Voice quieting, the words getting a little flatter and a little heavier on his tongue, he goes on, “It’s the fixing that’s got me worried though. If that _was_ you, Merlin, and I think it was, it… frightens me that you didn’t seem to know me. I mean, I owe you my life, I think. Not that that’s anything new. Still, I don’t know if you saved me because it was me, or because that’s just something you do. Maybe you go around mysteriously rescuing all the weary travelers who pass through these woods and find themselves in harm’s way?”

His weary shrug drags a bruised shoulder over stone, so he aborts the motion with a grunt. “Or maybe you did know me… even a little? I hope so, Merlin. I don’t like to think that you wouldn’t know me. I’ve missed you, you know? And things are so different now, old friend. Everything in Camelot has changed.”

Arthur goes on like that, talking softly, telling Merlin all the things he’s missed in his time away. Eventually, his voice drops to a whisper as he goes on, sibilants drawing out in longer skirling breaths, and finally he slips into sleep between one word and the next.


	14. Chapter 14

When Arthur blinks awake suddenly – the sun glaring alarmingly high, already above the tree line – there are still words ready on his tongue, but his mouth is too dry to speak them. He turns them into a yawn instead and then curses soundlessly at how much of the day has slipped by him already.

As he sits up, Arthur’s pleased to discover that his headache has mostly faded, though there’s still a bit of a dull throb across his right temple. He prods at the lump there, finding it tender and quite swollen and can feel a slight rent in the skin, still tacky and slightly scabbed over, and assumes his face must look quite the mess.

He curses again, this time in a hoarse croak, when he realizes that his waterskin is empty. He upends it anyway, managing a few drops, barely enough to dampen his tongue, and then manfully resists the urge to toss it aside in frustration.

It’s silly to be angry at himself for letting the morning get away from him. Between the bandits and chasing Merlin through the woods, he’d probably not even fallen asleep until close to dawn. Not to mention, he’d take a bit of a knock and needed the rest… Still, it feels as if Merlin slips away from him even as the morning does.

Levering himself to his feet seems to drive home the point that he needed time to recoup; he aches all over. He groans, his movements stiff and unsteady as he makes his way over to the saddle and packs where there’s a spare waterskin waiting. He swallows down greedy mouthfuls, ignoring that it’s slightly stale, and when he finally draws it away from his mouth it’s with a loud gasp of relief. “That’s better.” His tongue doesn’t feel like it’s scraping the roof of his mouth any longer, though the water just reminds him that he’d gone to sleep on an empty stomach.

“Yes, yes, I know. Breakfast soon.” He huffs at himself irritably, not sure if he should be more worried about the fact that talking to himself seems to have become the norm.

Arthur ignores the rumble of his belly for the time being and continues searching through the packs. He’s fairly sure Gaius had insisted on sending along some kind of healing unguent and a few sachets of herbs that could be used to make a poultice. Though, he probably should’ve made up a poultice last night to bring down the swelling, at least using some salve or concoction might help with the gash and the bruising now. Not to mention the various other scrapes and abrasions that he’d gotten on his ridiculous gambol through the woods.

He finds a small stoppered clay jar, tugs the cork to reveal a glistening, whitish paste and gives it a sniff. “That is _definitely_ something Gaius made,” he comments, nose-wrinkling and eyes squinting after jerking the little vessel away, the astringent odor still tingling his nostrils.

It’s going to sting the cut on his temple as well, he knows from years of experience being tended by Gaius, and then many more years by Merlin using Gaius’ tonics and remedies. “I wish you were here to help with this, Merlin,” he says idly, even as he begins dabbing the stuff at his injuries, focusing especially on the lump and a raw spot on his cheek where he’d scraped it against tree bark. “You’ve always been good at this bit. Though, you’d not have let me go to sleep without tending the wound first.” He hisses at the bite of cold trailing the path of his fingers that’s followed almost immediately by the expected sting of heat.

A breeze wafts by just as he finishes his ministrations and drops his hand away; a slight wind that slips through his fringe and across his brow and his cheeks and leaves the smears of unguent feeling cool in its wake.

He remembers then, how sometimes Merlin used to blow on the various scrapes and sword-cuts after treating them, to sooth that little bit of pain. He’d always excused it, saying he needed to ‘set’ the salve, but Arthur knew better.

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur says softly, as that odd, errant little zephyr moves off to rustle through the leaves.

Probably just his imagination. Probably.

But if it’s not…

“I’ll find you, Merlin,” Arthur promises, pushing aside all the aches and pains with renewed focus.

He makes a quick breakfast out of some of the skewered venison that hasn’t quite cured thoroughly enough over the fire – picking off the occasional bit of twig and grass and chewing the stringy meat while he works – and then hastily packs up the rest. The horses accept saddle and packs without complaint, though Arthur makes a point to let them graze while he gears them up. Their fodder isn’t going to last much longer at this rate. His last stop is the stream, to refill waterskins and let the horses drink as well.

When he finally eases into the saddle – no simple feat – and leaves the campsite behind, he keeps Crowfoot at a walk. Despite the urgency, he knows that Merlin is close enough that he could get to Arthur’s camp on foot. Though, he supposes it’s possible there was magic involved, and he can’t necessarily discount that, it’s safer to err on the side of the mundane; at least to start.

Only a few miles along the rather overgrown road he’s been following the forests starts to spread and change, oak and ash and linden are fewer, while juniper and pine start to dominate. The terrain gets rockier and more uneven, giving way to shrubby, skree-strewn hills and jagged-edged sandstone breaking through the earth.

“Caves,” Arthur mutters.

Brolly had mentioned that there were caves to be found just beyond the lowlands where the mountain range began. And though Brolly hadn’t outright said – preferring to speculate about the ‘wild man’ instead of the mysterious white beast – he assumes that there must be caves large enough nearby for a dragon live?

Roost?

What is the proper terminology?

He rides further into the foothills and the land to either side of the trail continues to increase in both elevation and prevalence of shale outcroppings and massive boulders. Soon enough it’s plain to see why these are called the White Mountains; though still some distance he can see the high peaks where pale limestone peeks through the deep green juniper trees and brownish-grey gorse and bracken.

The wagon-tracks of a road he’s been following turns sharply to the north once the roots of the mountain prove too much of a barrier, and Arthur’s only choice is to follow or dismount and make his way upward on foot. He halts Crowfoot, letting him and Bertie graze while he studies the terrain. He’s not quite sure what he’s looking for, as he’s got almost no idea how to track Merlin, to say nothing of a dragon, but he scans the landscape. Here and there pockets of shadow and dark shapes suggest overhangs or even deeper recesses into the rocks. Those are likely his best bet.

Arthur glances skyward, frowning. He’d not gotten moving until the early afternoon, and though overhead is still cloud-washed blue, it’s just starting to shade pinkish where the sun has begun its slow descent towards the horizon. Based on its position, he estimates that gives him around two hours to begin his search.

It’s not quite as much time as he’d hoped, but he can at least start to scout the area.

Leading the horses off the road, Arthur finds a place suitable to picket them – sheltered by tall pines and a ledge of limestone, and thick with grass – and eventually make camp. After deliberating a long moment about bringing Merlin’s satchel with him, he finally just settles on a waterskin and his sword, trusting the animals and his belongings will be safe. He knows it’s unlikely he’ll be set-upon by bandits again, but he’s still aching and sporting several bruises and doesn’t think anyone could fault him the caution.

Though it doesn’t seem very likely he’ll find a dragon making its home so close to the road, Arthur still investigates the nearest grottos and overhangs. None, however, are large enough for the beast he saw soaring over Fyrien’s castle.

And none contain any sign they’ve been home to an errant Sorcerer.

He does spy a few cavemouths and stone inlets further up in the hills, where even the hearty pines cling precariously, that look like they could lead to deeper, larger caverns. He marks those for exploring in the morning.

The sun begins to set all too soon, and Arthur finally gives up his rather aimless searching with reluctance. The only thing of value he spotted was the glister of sunlight on water through the trees. He suspects it’s the same stream that he drew from earlier in the day, likely running somewhat parallel to the road.

His relief at finding it is twofold: first, and utterly pragmatic, is that it simply will be good to have a nearby source of fresh water for himself and the horses; second is the fact that Merlin must have need of water, so it stands to reason he’d keep close.

Not to mention, it’s quite possible this stream originates higher in the mountains; tomorrow he’ll follow it to its source.

Frustration and fatigue gnaw at him when he returns to the horses and readies the campsite. That glimpse of Merlin last night is like a festering wound, burrowing under his skin, making him feel anxious and causing him to second-guess every move he makes. Maybe he should still be in the foothills, searching, instead of setting stones in a ring in the sheltering lee of these rocks? Why is he laying out his bedroll when he could be exploring caverns and hollows?

There’s an itch between Arthur’s shoulder blades, though he knows it’s just his imagination pricking at him.

He does his best to shut it all out: the intrusive doubts, the sensation that he’s being watched, even the driving urge to keep up his fruitless search. Instead, he focuses on the mundane tasks ahead of him, though he knows each one has its own deeply layered motivation. The fire he builds is as much for warmth as it is in the hope that it might draw Merlin forth again tonight. He lays out food for his own meal, wondering if the smell of cooked meat might be enough to attract a dragon’s attention.

Even his soft words to the horses while he curries coats and beds them down – muttered apologies at not providing them the apples he promised – are spoken with the thought that they might be overheard.

Despite his anxious fretting – starting at every noise, stares lingering too long at the darkness beyond the trees – the evening passes fully into night utterly uneventfully. By the time Arthur settles into his bedroll next to his carefully banked fire, he’s worked himself into an exhaustion that has little to do with the days exertions. Though the words are slurred on a sleep-heavy tongue, he mutters out a heartfelt, “Good night, Merlin.” There are a thousand other things that want to follow, but sleep drives them all from his thoughts.

The heaviest, darkest part of night still holds sway the next time he stirs, waking from restless dreams. There’d been a sensation… or a sound… some strange ill-fitting thing that changed the shape of his dreams, forming them into the vaguest memory. He can still hear it as he lies there, blinking through gummy-eyes at the black overhead (too black? Shouldn’t there be stars?): it’s a rhythmic shush… shush… shush.

It’s like…

Like a cloak caught up in the wind.

Like a Knight’s pennant snapping in the air on the battlefield.

Like neither of those things…

Still half in a somnambulant stupor, it takes Arthur a very long moment to recognize why it’s familiar. To be fair, he’s heard it only a few times in his life, and the last time he was dying.

Dragon’s wings.

The blackness overhead – pure and starless – suddenly makes sense: there’s a massive dragon shadow passing over him.

Alert in an instant, a rush of something almost electric surging through him, Arthur sits up and gapes skyward. It occurs to him that for the dragon to loom so large, taking so long to pass, it’s flying very low. Its belly must be skimming the treetops.

“Aithusa!” He bellows the name, loud as he can, feeling it crackle and scrape a sleep-dry throat.

There’s no way the beast can’t hear him!

And yet, it doesn’t react. It just continues coasting over him, almost eerily slow, massive wings mostly just catching the wind and holding it aloft, flapping only every now and then. There’s something strange about that though… because even as large as the dragon is, and even at such a slow glide and a low height in the air, it should’ve passed by in only moments.

Arthur watches it for several over-long moments, realizing that it’s drifting in lazy circles, moving very little except to course correct now and then. Following that understanding comes the realization that it’s purposefully hovering. It _wants_ Arthur to see! It may not be able to communicate with him directly, but it’s found a way to let Arthur know that it’s aware of him.

“I see you, Aithusa!” he shouts. “I see you. I understand!”

That seems to be what the dragon is waiting for. Tail lashing, it pauses mid-air and lets out a bellowing roar. A gout of flame jets out of its mouth, lighting up the whole of the sky and the forest, bright as dawn. The ground beneath Arthur’s feet rumbles at the noise, and he can feel a gust of warmth wash over him.

Righting itself in the air, Aithusa gives a massive flap of those leathery wings and bursts forward in a rush.

Arthur scrambles to his feet and gives chase.

He knows that it’s leading him, guiding him in the right direction to find Merlin. He keeps pace with the ghost-white form overhead, just barely. By the time he reaches the edge of the tree line, where the forest gives way to mountain, he spies the dragon dipping down towards a rather lofty peak. It’s higher than he’d thought he’d need to climb, and lit only by the waning gibbous moon, he can’t tell how difficult it will be to traverse. Aithusa lands, surprisingly gingerly for all its size, and then vanishes from sight. But Arthur fixes the place in his mind firmly, marking certain points and angles as landmarks.

“Thank you,” he says, panting slightly. Though, unless the dragon has extremely sensitive hearing, it’s much too far to hear his words. Still, he feels better having uttered them.

He spends a few more minutes memorizing his destination, wanting to be sure he’ll recognize it come daybreak (much as he’d like to go now, he’d likely fall and break his neck trying to make that climb in the dark). To aid his return, he snaps several thin branches off the nearest trees and lays them on the ground, forming an arrow that points in the right direction.

Arthur also twists branches and kicks up furrows in the dirt and leaves underfoot, leaving a clearly marked trail to follow. Luckily, following the dragon didn’t take him too far from camp (not nearly as far as his haphazard chasing on Merlin’s heels the night before) and even with leaving himself ready trail markers, it still doesn’t take long to return to his fire and bedroll.

Of course, settling back to sleep after that is nearly an exercise in futility. He’s wide awake, and there’s finally a firm hope buoying him and it’s hard to close his eyes against it. All that he can think on is what he’ll find when he finally makes that climb.

Eventually, he borrows from ages-old training that came from a venerable Knight he’d known as a mere Princeling. Arthur had begged to be allowed to accompany his father’s men on some small conquest or another – a very one-sided type of conflict where Camelot was assured of victory and there was little risk to him – and the King had reluctantly granted this indulgence.

He can no longer remember the exact goal or much about the journey; even the memory of combat – that he watched mostly from afar, allowed to walk the battlefield only when victory was assured – is a blur of flashing armor and the clang of metal-on-metal, and so much blood, but he recalls the eve prior to battle. He’d lain awake in the campaign tent, body thrumming with anxiety and no small modicum of fear. The Knight, Sir Elmore, had been one of the half-dozen assigned to watch over him. He’d noticed Arthur’s nerves, his restless fidgeting, and advised a too-young boy that a Knight needed to gain his rest where he could. When Arthur’d protested, arguing that he’d never be able to sleep, Elmore had guided him through a simple breathing exercise.

While Arthur doesn’t know if the technique really worked back then, or it was just exhaustion finally gaining the upper hand once his young mind was occupied, but he’s used the exercise many times since and always found it effective. He tries it now, breathing in slowly through his nose, holding the breath and then releasing it equally slowly through pursed lips.

It’s not instantaneous, but eventually it relaxes him enough (and, probably more importantly, gives his wildly distracted thoughts something to focus on) and he drifts to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

This time, when Arthur rouses again, it’s to the sun and morning birdsong. Though he’s still a bit weary from a night’s sleep interrupted, his immediate thought upon rousing is of Merlin, and the likelihood that today should…_will_ be the day that he finds him. It’s enough to have him springing up and out of his bedroll right away.

He breaks his fast with some venison and dried fruit – not wanting to waste time with anything more substantial and then readies the gear he’ll be taking with him. He’ll have to leave the horses behind, and he wants to ensure they’ll have access to plenty of fresh water and graze, as he’s got no idea how long he’ll be away from them.

It almost escapes his notice, as he’s busy getting the animals brushed and saddled, and it takes nearly tripping over them for him to finally see what’s at his feet: apples. A small stack of them, piled neatly right at the edge of the camp.

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. He kneels slowly and reaches out to take one almost reticently, like he’s afraid it will vanish once his fingers touch the shiny red-green surface. But it doesn’t; it feels just like an apple in his hand.

He smiles. “Merlin.”

Because there’s no other explanation.

Of course, that can only mean…

Arthur’s smile falls away when he realizes that it means that Merlin was at his campsite again, and for the second night in a row he didn’t make himself known to Arthur. He doesn’t even know when Merlin and his apples made their appearance; if it was before or after his late-night visitation from the dragon.

And it also raises the question: was Merlin close enough to overhear his apologies to the horse over his failure to find them apples? Is that what spurred this strange ‘offering’? Does that mean that Merlin’s been lurking close by, observing him?

Something sharp, a sort of wrongness, catches in Arthur’s chest. Merlin was close enough to hear words softly spoken, but still he didn’t approach. He wants to believe, so very much, that Merlin recognizes him, that he knows him… But, _why_ would he stay away? What’s keeping him from coming to Arthur’s camp right now?

“There’s only one way to find out, I guess. I have to find him.” Looking out into the trees, beyond them, he amends, “I’ll have to find _you_.”

That’s easier said than done, though. It takes Arthur until late morning to get things arranged for the horses. He manages a sort of loosely structured ‘corral’; using rope and some strategically placed deadfall to cordon off an area that’s thick with grass and stream adjacent. Of course, all that Crowfoot or Bertie would have to do to ‘escape’ is cross the stream, but he’s hoping they’ll stay put. He leaves his saddles and most of his packs behind as well, loading up with only what he thinks is necessary to carry with him for his climb.

Naturally that includes Merlin’s pack. Arthur’s not sure if it will mean anything to Merlin but barring all else there’s a vague sort of hope that something inside might be the impetus to spark recognition. He settles the well-worn satchel over his shoulder, finding a comfort in the weight of it, but instead of setting out immediately, he finds himself staring rather aimlessly. His extra gear, the horses, the stream: all are in view, but he’s not really seeing any of them.

He’s hesitating, yet again.

It’s not too difficult to understand the source of his lingering reluctance. It’s the same fear that’s been plaguing him this whole journey: what if Merlin isn’t there. What if he’s misinterpreted the actions of a mindless beast and the dragon wasn’t actually signaling him? 

It’s absurd, he knows that, but that niggling worry makes his first step toward the foothills something he must force; though the second step comes a bit easier. By the time he breaches the trees and finds the rocky slopes waiting, he’s moving with surety. Momentum as much as anticipation draws him on.

The trail he marked the night prior is surprisingly easy to find – he may have been a bit excessive with his guiding stone piles and broken branches – and despite how different the ridges and hills and tumbling rocks appear in daylight, Arthur has no doubt about where to go.

The start of the ascent is also easy enough, mostly an uphill trudge with very little actual climbing necessary. It’s not until he’s almost halfway along that things start getting more precarious. He takes time to be sure of his hand and footholds, and sometimes the only way forward is to backtrack and find another route.

Hanging from a particularly jutting edifice, toes of his boots providing very little traction or support, Arthur inches carefully along, hand-over-hand until he feels a divot in the shelf of rock that he can hook his fingers into. He pulls himself up, one-handed, and is tentatively searching out with his foot for solid ground to help level his body over the edge, when the stone under his fingers start to give.

“Merlin!”

It’s instinct to call out to him, and even as Arthur scrabbles desperately at the edge of the precipice, his whole-body jerking down a handspan or more and continuing to slip, he doesn’t quite feel fear. He’s got a split second to curse himself a fool – he should be terrified! – while he makes a last, desperate grab at a withered branch of a pine shrub growing from a narrow crevasse.

Miraculously, Arthur _doesn’t_ plummet to his death.

The needleless, slender limb he wraps his gloved fingers around holds true, and he’s able to get his other hand on it and use it to climb up onto the flat surface of the overhang and haul himself over. He collapses in a prone sprawl on the narrow shelf, cheek cupped by cool, gritty stone, and his panting breaths stir up little clouds of whirling dust motes while he gets his breathing under control. “That,” he mutters, “was ridiculously stupid.”

Whether he’s referring to the near-fall or calling out for Merlin’s help in such impossible circumstances, Arthur’s not quite sure. Once he’s got his breath back and his heart is no longer threatening to pummel its way out of his chest, Arthur takes stock. He sits up, sidles back further on the rock shelf and lets his back rest against stone. Almost as miraculous as the save by dead shrubbery, is the fact that he didn’t lose a single piece of gear during that mad scramble. His fingers cling tight to Merlin’s satchel for a long moment, reassured by its weight.

It’s not until he levers himself to his feet and starts seeking out the next likely place to get a foothold, that Arthur accidentally steps down on the tiny little pine bush that saved his life.

It crumbles like brittle bones beneath his heel.

“What the hell?”

He lifts his boot and there’s no mistaking that the very same branch that had only minutes ago been strong enough to bear his weight now lays splintered beneath his foot.

“Gods, Merlin,” Arthur exhales harshly, feeling the name, and perhaps something else, gather in a knot at his throat. Merlin saved him, _again_. It’s the only explanation.

Deciding against examining the obviously ‘dead’ shrub, Arthur shakes his head and focuses instead on the path upward. Though a peculiar warmth that spreads through his chest – there’s no denying it: he called for Merlin’s help and got it – it’s chased after by a cold wariness. Above all else, Arthur is desperate to understand ‘why’. If Merlin is able to save Arthur from falling to a messy death on jagged rocks, why then isn’t he here, helping Arthur with the rest of his climb.

If he were close enough to leave a pile of apples for the horses, especially after a guilty Arthur had bemoaned his inability to get them, why then didn’t he join Arthur at his campsite to share them?

The ‘whys’ plague him as he continues his ascent. Although, he’s still especially careful of his grip and he follows the natural runnels and ramps formed in the earth whenever possible.

Arthur’s perhaps just a bit too lost in thought; it takes him several minutes to realize that the incline he’s been slowly trudging up is strangely free of stone or debris. It wends a somewhat rambling but steadily rising trail up the side of the mountain. It’s a path, and a well-travelled one at that, if the packed down soil and worn stones are any indication.

He looks back the way he came and spots the boulder he’d clambered over to set his feet onto this trail. Much to his chagrin, he realizes that although the trail switchbacks several times, he can follow it all the way to the base of the mountain.

“Now why in the hell didn’t that dragon start me off there?” Gods, it would’ve made his climb a simple thing. He bites his tongue on cursing Aithusa though… after all, it was the dragon’s guidance that got him this far. He supposes the thing probably assumed Arthur would look for a trail; it makes sense that Merlin has to have a way up and down.

And why that thought didn’t occur to him earlier, Arthur has no idea.

He may have a path to follow now, but he still proceeds carefully. Even in areas where the angle is shallow and there are handholds aplenty, it’s still an unknown trail to an unknown destination. He reminds himself of that when the urge to sprint up to the peak pushes him to move faster and just a bit more reckless.

It turns out that his thoughts yesterday about the river were well-founded. Once he’s gained another few dozen yards of altitude he can see where water emerges from a break in the rocks into a small pool and then spills down in steep streams and shimmering falls. It’s not always visible, sometimes getting swallowed back into dark recesses of rock, but it funnels out not far from the overgrown roadway. From this distance it’s difficult to make out, but it looks like there’s a rough bridge crossing it where the stream and roadway intersect.

If he’d continued just a half a league further yesterday, he’d have found the source of the waterway and very possibly the end of the very path that’s taking him up to the precipice.

All thoughts of ‘what if’ and ‘if only’ are shunted immediately aside once Arthur steps up onto a rather wide, flat plateau that sharply cuts off the escarpment. The caprock is firm beneath his feet and only a dozen paces away the dark ingress of a massive cavern seems like it’s been sliced neatly from the rock around it. It’s too perfectly formed, and Arthur wonders if Merlin, or Merlin and the dragon, had a hand in its shaping.

This is it.

_This_ is where he’ll find Merlin.

Letting the pack and satchel drop from his shoulders, Arthur surges forward, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he rushes towards the cavern. There are voices in his head cursing his folly – the gods only know what awaits him inside – but he shunts them all aside; there’s only one thing he can think about.

It’s oddly light inside, more so than it should be for just the daylight filtering in the egress, and there are scattered shallow pools here and there, while eerily glowing lichen grows in patches on the walls. Arthur stutters to a halt, feet sliding on damp, slick stone, when he spots the figure toward the back of the cavern.

Robed and kneeling at the edge of a large pool and with his back to Arthur, there’s still no question to who it is. Arthur’s heart thuds painfully against his breast.

“Merlin!”

The name leaves his lips on a desperate, hoarse cry. It echoes all around him, reverberating off stalactites and stalagmites, repeating in resonant lows and ringing crystalline highs, bouncing around the space in seemingly endless repetition.

He stands breathless, still, and wide-eyed as the name slowly fades. When the last, low ululation whispers into silence and all around them goes quiet, the figure rises. He can see hands come up to push back the cowl of the robe, revealing achingly familiar, messy, mink-dark hair. It’s longer than he’s ever seen it (of course, it’s not as if Merlin has anyone around to cut it), tousled and wavy, but he knows it nonetheless. And those ears!

…Ummm, those ears?

Though Arthur recognizes the way they stick out – a characteristic he’s always found endearing – there’s something about the shape of them that makes an uneasy shudder run down Arthur’s spine.

And Merlin’s fingers, as they slowly draw away from the bunching cloth at his shoulders, the length of them is unnatural… and they seem to taper to fine points.

When he slowly turns – Arthur watching with his heart in his throat – a beam of early afternoon light catches the unnatural extension of that eartip and refracts, almost glittering, on the sword-sharp arc of his cheekbone.

And… it must be the light? Or the luminescent lichen? Something about the way they play off the greyish-green stone of the cavern, or the shallow watery pools, before reflecting on Merlin’s skin?

Because Arthur would _swear_ that the elegant sweep of Merlin’s cheek is mottled with patches of color; pale greens and dusty blue and chalk white.

But that’s impossible… isn’t it?

He finds his voice; chokes out another desperate, “Merlin?”

The figure that he wants to believe is Merlin completes his slow turn and stands facing Arthur now. His eyes… they’re like nothing Arthur has ever seen before. Arthur knows it’s not the light or any reflections playing tricks on his mind. Merlin’s eyes are solidly colored, even the whites now a dusk-clouded blue, and their pupils a narrow slit. Faint sparks of gold dance around them, like miniscule lightning bolts storming over an angry sea.

These are the eyes of a beast… of a dragon.

And they’re staring at him from Merlin’s face.

A face that’s also changed. While he still sees Merlin in the shape of his jaw and the fullness of his lips, and the curve of his brows, the shallow of his cheeks is deeper, the bones sharper, more angular, and at the edges of his hairline and even spreading onto his brow and jaw, pale skin gives way to that strange, blue-green iridescent mottling.

Not mottling… _scales_.

Taking it all in, staring at what’s become of his friend, Arthur finally understands what he’s here to fix.

And he’s never been more at a loss in his life…

All the while that he studies and stares, Merlin watches him, unblinking. He’s so still that he hardly seems to breath. Only the slight stirring of the overlong fringe concealing his forehead tells Arthur that he’s breathing.

There are a hundred things that Arthur wants to blurt out all at once: questions and accusations and words of relief and joy and confusion. They all clog in his throat and weigh down his tongue until the only thing that slips out is another plaintive repetition, “Merlin.”

The figure that he knows is Merlin, as much as he’s having trouble reconciling the facts of his changed appearance, cants his head. He seems to study Arthur, though like a curious animal – _no_, a curious predator, rather than a human hearing his name spoken aloud.

Arthur tries again, this time raising his hands slowly, spreading them wide in a show of harmlessness. He takes a careful half-step forward. “Merlin,” he says again.

One of Merlin’s hands twitches… starts to lift. Slowly, just a fraction at first, but when Arthur stretches out, reaching for him, Merlin begins to reach back.

Arthur almost balks when he sees that the fingers stretching toward his are flecked with those shimmery scales and tipped in long, wicked-looking claws. But this is Merlin, and he’s so, so close.

The distance between their hands shrinks to little more than a handspan.

“It’s _me_, Merlin,” he says softly. “It’s Arthur.”

Merlin’s head jerks straight. He blinks one long, slow blink.

And then in an instant, a harsh, guttural, growl of a word seems to rumble out of Merlin’s chest, hardly touching his lips as it’s spat out; it’s an animalistic sound and Merlin’s eyes flash with brilliant gold light. He pushes past Arthur in a sudden surging rush, gone in a blur of impossible speed. But he’s no spirit or vision because he knocks into Arthur’s shoulder as he passes, sending him almost spinning with the force of it.

Arthur stumbles, recovers and hurries after him. When he reaches the mouth of the cavern, blinking into the shock of sunlight, he looks about urgently. He searches the switchback path and the surrounding rocks and even the tree line far below and sees nothing. There’s no way Merlin – well, regular Merlin – could’ve gotten out of his sight that fast. He needs to remember this is not regular Merlin he’s dealing with. He casts about a few more minutes, even stepping out onto the caprock to look further up the mountain.

Still no sign.

He feels heartsick; a physical pain lances through his chest at the abruptness of it all. How can he hope to help Merlin if he runs from Arthur’s very presence? And what if he doesn’t come back?

It’s useless, he knows, but he can’t help calling out one more time. “Merlin! Now what the hell am I supposed to do?”


End file.
